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Her life has become a hard fiction: from the bits of string protruding from her skull to the mythical Greek luncheons (served with cynically cut golden apple slices, (can you believe perfect quarters?)) Impish delights and flutterings of the toungue had been put aside in the harsh Quebec winter to focus on a more important goal: being mean. See, now, despite the endless parades of hook nosed boys in impossible caridgans and pince nez specs (always, endlessly, debating the spread of the Forex,) and their willing desire to entertain, breadwin and speak the most laberous French, our starred lady had been taken in with repatriating herself through high cruelty.

With all the lethargy that comes with liberal airs, a bipolar lingu franca, and penny stock thermometers spins off a kinetic snowball of regret singed with the small atoms of longing. Her postpartum depression (through a tricky pregnancy lasting four years and yeilding a sickly 7 gram diploma) convalesced in this enviroment, seeking a
full recovery into proper intergration into her everyday fiber. Work was always steady and demanding. Satisfying may be pushing it, but the commuter smirk appeared on the AMT every day as sure as Lauds follows Matins. But she was not one to live for work. She was one to divorce cause from effect. (And as days became increasingly same-y she was able to repudiate her mind from her soul with marginal hardship.) Body was no longer a factor, nor a husk, an anchor or a vessle. Routine and age had conspired with sutch deft subterfugue that no amount of out right adventures could deshackle her brain.

Anger and bile were kept in staunt reserve under her palette. Wth it all so clear and set there was only the loosest cloud of confusion, cleared away with a lazy scratch. Mirrors set side by side, only dull fear steared. Cue the French.

Say what you will, but French wit is a horrible thunder lizard. Even a fossilized Oui with the right timing (or italics) echoes the regime of would-be rock'n'roll destroyer-kings. Din. But, however, and all that, the woman in question started an innocent fixation on French wit. Television had made her sensative to the sardonic, while base
sarcasm was the staple of things mundane and humerous. Overtime, she found herself less at libraries and more at bibliotecques....