Deux.

I've been writing a story about a bird that can't really sing and flock of doves and a flock of pigeons and a princess that's half deaf. The pictures are becoming something I'm quite proud of.
Clearly, I am done with Fall term. But we have four weeks left.
Also, Paris tea is growing scarce in our household. I know what I want for Christmas if I plan on making it through the Winter and Spring.

These days I feel like a liar, but not really. I am constantly two very different beings.
That sweater I'm wearing above, I like that sweater. Sometimes. In my I will be a teacher someday and I like thin belts around my waist and I need more cardigans and I want to travel to a thousand places and speak a thousand languages moments, I like that sweater. But then, when I think, I only want to be a wife and Mother and wear well-worn jeans and soft tee shirts and have a huge kitchen and the home of my dreams and a million children and tell them a million stories, I disregard my current wardrobe and hate that sweater.
I'm glad it's not mine. It belongs to the fairy.

In the story, the flocks of birds make the other bird cry and then he screeches and weeps so loudly that good things actually happen to him. I think I've been reading too much Roald Dahl because I've been enthralled with everything but my nonfiction homework. In college there are no perks to being a fairytale writer.
This morning I'm drinking earl grey since I've rationed my Paris. It tastes of bitterness and the wind storm in my backyard. Did I mention that wind storm yet? There's the sound of a rumbling, rolling giant's belly outside, and the trees are dancing and whipping their branches to the rhythm. It's almost frightful.

I am going to try and be one person. Just for today.