Blank Doll changes into a cube and fliiieeess away.

So you're feeling down and out. The world doesn't dance to your particular beat. Big fat hairy deal. Cheer up, it happens all the time. I'd like to think that melodrama doesn't raise its ugly head when I'm around but ah, all is vanity. All is vanity indeed.

I write and I write and I write. My story is never done. But then, whose is? I'd love to have you over, to hear you talk to me, to have lunch with you, to share a cup of tea, to watch the rain with you, to laugh with you, to love with you. To live with you? Nah.

Oh no, I'm not feeling sad anymore, nor angry nor hurt. I'm flying off to Aussieland where the sun will strike my skin dead. What can I complain about? I shall however stick to my ideal that only the working class need have a tan. We to whom are gifted with the virtues of birth, state and merit need not suffer such an affront. Sounds familiar? Victorian bigotry can be co-opt to fit anyone. The annoying thing about Victorian bigotry is that of course, the Victorians have nothing to be proud of. They are Europeans after all. I'm a Chinese, that's different.

Long live the glorious East.

Oh and I've been infected by some strange variant of gothiphilia. Sooner or later my clothes will turn black. No way am I wearing gunmetal. Tres passe.

C'est tout.