Star dusts, once holding the ball of fires in Milky Way—
Every single night, you hold your head up, up high
Wishing that they are all yours, burning in your hands—
Paraded down to earth, slashed the thin layers of air
Gathering themselves, embracing every skin of your body
Inch by inch, heat sinks into your muscles and bones
In a blink of an eye, you were burned, scattering silver ashes.
Ah, the dark side of ambition.
I prefer to see it as the promise of redemption.
“As a society, we encourage girls and women to be emotionally accessible, and in touch with their feelings; we say that it’s an innately feminine trait. We say it, that is, until they have feelings that make us uncomfortable, at which point we recast them as melodramatic harpies, shrieking banshees, and basket cases.”
— Tori Amos
At last the month of December came and the birth of the royal infant was daily expected. Louis XVI, delighted at the prospect, could not show Marie Antoinette enough attention, “going to her appartement ten times a day to ask how she was and never ceasing to question the doctors and the accoucheur.”
—Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette Before the Revolution by Nesta Webster