Blighted and sorrowful of all creatures are women.
And I, one of them.
I’m massacring my unborn children as a merciless contemporary Medea.
Is there any sense in reproducing creatures of perpetual sadness and despotic desires?
A fragile pebble carried carefully by my heart.
My mother, sad as the gloomiest Sunday, hopeless as a death wish.
She would often ask me to smile. She was complaining that I was very cheerless for a girl.
Then she would show me how to do it.
It’s still the saddest smile I've ever seen.
— The End —