You
speed around the corner at 100 mph, chased by cameramen and spies. There’s no
escape, from you. Photographs of every waking year, every line of handshakes.
Only alone in the palace, peace and phone calls. Someone will write your Wolf
Hall. You are mad and disobedient and glamorous and lost all over again. Every
word is on a tape somewhere. Headline: “He was all over me like a rash.” Your
story is re-crafted with the shapely perfection of a perfume promotion. Your
sons are immune. Your boyfriends get killed. There’s no escape, for you. Paris
in August, so romantic.
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