Come out of the garden, baby
You’ll catch your death in the fog
Young girl, they call them the Diamond Dogs
~ Diamond Dogs, David Bowie
Did she heed his words and come inside, sit by the fire with a cup of tea and an appropriately ladylike novel? Of course not. But then they knew that about her. They had counted on it.
Eudora Everton went her own way, which was generally the way of the Devil’s Advocate. Someone needs to advocate for him. Why shouldn’t it be Eudora?
Too many hearts were granted her at birth. She shot them into the sky, never knowing where they might land. Many were lost…but she didn’t mind. She had plenty of hearts. What else was to be done with them, anyway? Keep them in glass jars in some morbidly moldy basement? Not Eudora.
After the “incident” in the garden, life has become flat. The remainder of her hearts have all flown away, gently, slowly, painfully while the winter dims her face. If that sounds slightly grim, you’re probably right.
A bundle of aches, Eudora slipped inside the weathered, revered garden wall and peers out at a tired world. Before the crumble set in, she scratched a last message into the wall. Words of advice or warning? Neither, I think. A title, perhaps. The rest forever unfinished. What the hell is in a title? What could possibly be the point? Along with an entire Universe, you may often find nothing in particular.