Sibyl Himura

( Cut for Sibyl's blatherings on love. )

Can one truly die for lack of love? Do you believe in such a thing?

How quickly August's passed by! As always - "summer's lease hath all too short a date," of course - but it seemed even shorter this year. It's odd how quickly the time passes the more we would like to hold on to it!

But this is no time for melancholy; there is the play! I am very much enchanted with my rôle as Cosette, and yet more so with my Wendy's Marius. Though we have not rehearsed for long, I already think it shall be a wonderful production.

Classes are going well - I think! Oh, it's so different from my secondary school! But it is quite, quite lovely here, and I like it. I do miss London, and I wish that I could go home, for a weekend, perhaps. Don't you miss your homes? I suppose that some of you do visit home. But some others are very much further from home than I am - from France, or Spain, or even from America! I should not complain, I suppose.

The auditions for the play are tomorrow! I'm quite pleased; I found we're doing Les Miserables, a musical about love. Or - revolution, and justice, and love. Love, in any case. I've prepared a monologue and a song, of course, and I do hope to play the romantic lead, Cosette. Wouldn't that be lovely? I think that I should play a perfect Cosette.

And, of course, the weather is so fine. Would anyone care to join me for a walk this evening? The gardens are so absolutely lovely, and the flowers won't be so beautiful much longer.

Wendy, my roommate, I do know that I haven't seen much of you, and I apologize for that! Regardless, I hope we shall become better friends than we are. Let's have lunch tomorrow - would you like to?

[Private message to girls only]

What does one wear to go dancing with a French boy?

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
Sonnet 65.

Another summer passes and dies. I'll miss it. Autumn always makes me feel so tired, and winter is even worse. Oh, let's use the rest of the summer well. It always seems like time runs faster at the end of summer, slipping through our fingers ever more quickly. I wonder why that is.

It was lovely this summer, even just staying in London. I was Cordelia and Portia and Rosalind - and Juliet, of course. My mother and I played with a new company, in a tiny little dump of a theatre on the north side, and the director was an old drunk, but oh, it was lovely. I had a little garden all my own, just like Juliet's, where I could sit and dream, and think of coming here.

And now I'm here, at Lancaster, and it's quite, quite different. But very lovely! There are more flowers here than at home. And the grounds are beautiful. I do love the trees. I've hardly been into the town at all, but I'd love to wander there. Would anyone like to go and explore with me - this weekend, perhaps?

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Application for britlitmod

( Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a little, flowerlike face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were like the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen in my life. )