I love money, don't I? In that way, I am exactly like my father. In every other way, really.
And no. Stories that don't happen are not love stories.
I write to you from my small atelier. My two fur babies sleep so close to me on the floor, that if I slightly move my chair, I could run them over. And why not, tell me? Why not? it might add some life to this vast prison I live in.
I no longer live stories when they become memories. In fact, I no longer live. And yet, my brother insists that I am living my best life. I have been postponing writing a book about my father for a year now.
But it is time, isn't it? To face him. Maybe face myself.
Just noticed that am inserting a lot of I's in my letter to you. Would understand if you called me self-centered narcissist. That is exactly what I have become. Only I have nothing and no - one to think about, except my fur babies and My canary.
I love money, don't I ? More than men, if that is possible.
And what would I write about my father? tell me. Be brutally honest with me. You would not be telling me anything I don't already know. He should have left me more money so I live like those society women in Ras Beirut, who adored him, and helped him runaway from his traditional life. Not that he needed much help, anyway.
And do tell me when you have the time, who am I - now that I am no longer anyone, and am no longer interested in being anyone, Not really interested in anyone?
I used to compete with other women for the men in my life. I find that so boring now.
You must come over and have coffee with me. Maybe you could write about my father instead of me. Am afraid of destroying him with the harsh truth once I start writing about what I really think of him.
But in reality, I am exactly like him.
No, am not only speaking about his ferociously present nose.
It has been very cold outside for exactly two years now. The outside world is so cold. But that is okay, isn't it, for I am always hiding inside my vast prison.
There is a whole new world waiting for me outside my window. On the other side of my imagination. By now, I am used to hiding in corners. Two very cold years. I really don't deserve that punishment. But we must do this on our own, don't we? cross to the other side all by ourselves.
Do you think my father will forgive me what I am about to write about him? It doesn't matter, for we were happy while it lasted.
Tonight it is raining, on the other side of my imagination. Outside my atelier, it is almost hot, and I should have gone to eat sausages by the sea in the posh restaurant my father loved in Ras Beirut.
We were never in love, were we, you and I? But it no longer matters. Will start scuba diving lessons in a couple of weeks. Of course, somewhere in a posh hotel by the Beach in Ras Beirut. It is only there that I feel alive. For there, walks my father.
He will forgive my honesty once I start writing the book about him. He always does.
I suppose, I must find another way to spite him.
AR 
EN