Apparently, she is constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown. To eliminate the risk of her (imminent) collapse, she stays emotionally inept.
"How unfair it is to live with nostalgia for the past."
"Are there seasons in hell?"
At the time, she was dating a famous photographer who was only with her because she overlooked his affairs. They fucked the first night they met. She was the perfect rendition of a dream.
Eventually, problems emerged when they began to feel less freedom, and although they loved each other the same way idiotic couples profess to love each other, she left him for a writer.
She was instantly enthralled. The writer dominated his craft. He captured her with words; unlike her previous deception, who she considered superficial and extraordinarily banal.
The problem with this one wasn't the absence of freedom. One morning, she awoke to find his body hanging from their ceiling fan. She thought his recurring works on alienation were largely fictive.
