We’re F. Scott ingénues. Curious cases. Brilliant but fading fast--enamored by the evergreen glow of fate.
We flout convention to tout our lofty “truths” star-written and palm-read.
For passing thrills, we study the sun. Sleepy scientists searching not for an answer, but the blinding light that precipitates Eureka.
Illusions of healing: ice packs, heating pads, band-aids that proclaim our status as bad mother ******* carry more weight than any ultimate solution.
We’re dilettantes. Tinkerers. Hobby-Lobbyists. Will we ever burst the bubble-wrapped life to seek the exact? Where is our Great Perhaps? Have we found it yet? Or are we just a passing fad? A cunning plan?
I've been reading a lot of Fitzgerald's short stories lately. I've nearly fallen into a F. Scott fugue state.