Soberness makes a woman a slave of her thoughts / by artnoise

 L'Absinthe, Edgar Degas,1875-76

L'Absinthe, Edgar Degas,1875-76

 "Every night I come here, in this cafe to wash away all the bastardly ways he's found to describe me as a whore. The reasons are vary and the most important one is that I'm miserably alone. The society out there is something unbearable, even if there is a growth, it seems it's going backwards in me. This bastard here doesn't even cast a glance at me. He's just cold-shouldering. Well, I must be ugly and disgusting, am I?  He must think I'm one of those ladies. Has he spoken with my husband by chance? After all, how could I blame him? The desolation is stuck in my eyes. My presence here is useless.

Don't worry, I'm fine. I'm sitting here hopelessly, helplessly, powerlessly, but I'm fine, really. Perhaps, wearing a hat in a public place, might be inappropriate and I might look in a hurry, ready to quaff and go, but I am not. I will probably stay here all night, having a lot of thoughts of my pathetic, curblike existence. Also my shadow, behind me, seems to ignore my real shape. It's not defined. Perhaps it's reflecting my non-definition, my tired body, my heavy limbs.

I am not an alcoholic, you know, but this nectar is just before my lazy eyes. I'm just staring at it. It may yet be some of use to me, it may help, at some point. The power is clear in this green liquid, although dull and turbid.

Garçon? Fill it up right to the top, s'il vous plaît."