May 12th, 2002 - 10:23 p.m.

Psst, kid... want some rocks?

Sigh, petit enfant... Je t�adore.

T., whomever it was that said one cannot be alive for someone else, was horribly, and unmistakably wrong. Because, she cannot help but declare: she is alive for A. That feeling of extreme tension, and utmost pain, radiating in brutal waves from the centre of the torso. Makes her lips quiver, and her eyes watery.

I believe this may be jealousy, yes, jealousy for the first time. Jealousy of the vater. Unfair, she claims. Unjust! She stamps her indignant Costume National sandal. Le petit enfant should be hers, and hers alone. The vater is undeserving, unworthy; a monster masquerading as a care provider. He knows not of beauty, of entertainment, of joy and of poetry. He cannot understand the enfant. Oh, A. this is pushing your sister to the verge of sickening sentimentality, and threatens to transform her into a snivelling beast spouting heartfelt logorrhea. No, wait, never you mind, you psycho monkey. Just kidding. Just smoke another cigar, and do turn on the Woody Allen. Perhaps this shall be over before I take my next breath.

Bah, I say. Bah to the law. This shall grow into serious contempt.

N.

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