A rough draft poem/letter of Margo's before she leaves Jefferson Park, to Quentin, which she never sent.
I've never been good at poetry.
I am a paper girl,
a simple paper girl,
fill my head with ideas of typical bliss,
of future forward lives
which leave the unknown amiss,
I'm a paper girl,
in this paper town,
we look up at the sky,
our eyes flutter back to the ground,
for I only see
what futures intend for me,
I dream of adventure,
yet nothing becomes,
no more than a mere shadow,
of lack-lustred dreams
of a hazed black mind.
We are so very paper thin;
one could be swept away in an up-draft...
But I suppose that's what I want really; I'd rather be another scrap in the wind than an un-fulfilled mind and soul.
Please Quentin, let me float away,
for you know better than I,
I will just yellow and fade anyway.