Drink: La Croix
The fact that I am almost done with this sucker, and am therefore draining the dregs of two solid months of literary toil, is making me maudlin. I'm desperate to end it. Yet, as with so many terrible relationships, it's difficult, at the very last, not to hesitate. The end of Don Q means the end of summer. It means the days drawing down, the cold coming, death creeping closer and closer still.
Maudlin, like I said.
I find myself, in a Stockholm Syndrome-esque fit, missing the old coot. I miss him in the piercing way you feel an absence that hasn't yet managed to manifest itself -a keener missing, and a truer, than you can ever conjure once a person is gone.
O, Don Q! Your speeches; your long underwear; your saturninity! How will I go on, deprived of your windmill-tilting, your futile charging, your umbrage-taking, your ill-advised quests, your slaughter of straw men, your multiplicity of unhorsings, your hasty restreats, your glorious immolation of the body of practicality upon the bright, hot pyre of gallantry?
You didn't look good doing it. But then, how many of us do?