10. I

Entre nous: We always talk, so I said once to a good friend, always, so much, without any parsimonious doubt about it, in our lifehood—if not a kind of lifeblood—of a Jane Austen—so exiguous squabbles that we are—that means so fathomlessly, fashionably, fabulously to us. And if she is in us and we in her, then what does that mean oh so much to say about the dream of you in me? I’ve thought about you every day, dreamed of you, dreamed up being you, since I was little, Sarah? You, Sarah, the you that I am, and that I am not and may never be, I dreamed of every day and I know is only someone in the dreams of a dream that can’t never not be ever in being that be-ing-ness of this world that, wherein: ?/! Can I say I love you. Is that too much to ask. Oh, ah, Sarah. Oh I would like, I only want, my words to dance, to dance for you, Sarah. Darcy: “What do you suggest then?” Elizabeth: “Dancing.”