(no subject)
*in very scripty handwriting, with lots of loops and swirls*
Dear Diary.
I've found my way to this place, it's called the "Desperate Fans Mansion." I have yet to see a fan or understand why they are desperate, but I hypothesize that since the weather is so pleasant now in autumn, it must be verily sweltering in summer, and so one simply cannot abide without a fan, and the dependency upon them makes one desperate. I am quite dreading the summer. I don't like the heat. (It's much nicer when it's cool, I think it'd be far lovelier to cuddle. I hope Hero likes cuddling, I'm very excited about the prospect.)
Last night I had a conversation with Benedick that left me flustered. I do not know why he insists upon recalling my lamb-like nature, nor why he said many of the things he did. It seems strange to me, that he says he cares nothing for love and its symptoms, and of course I take him at his word, he is a noble, honest man, and I love him deeply, but then! I am not sure. The things he said put ideas in my head, and I don't like it.
I had terrible dreams last night. Haunted by demons, or bad milk, I don't know, but twice it was I awoke flustered and sweating in the night. This is confidential, isn't it? The lady confided it was my private journal, so I suppose there's no harm. I dreamt first I was a woman. And Benedick--these dreams are no doubt aroused by our conversation, but they are none the less unsettling for it. Forgive me, my pen, I am overcome with shame. I dreamt I had a woman's body, and Benedick used me as a woman, and then when I slept again, I dreamt I had my own body, and again Benedick used me as a woman.
Today I was seduced by a vampire. It was rather overwhelming, but I resisted admirably. At least, I'm reasonably certain I did. But, see, what worries me is that much of his seductions were similar ... were ... similar... to Benedick's conversations with me last night.
But I resisted... not... so well. With Benedick.
I feel perhaps I should go to confession, for my soul, but I'm not sure what I have to confess. I'm not sure whether or not I've done sin. I think I might have sinned, or thought sin, but I'm not sure what it is I've thought, and it confuses me.
I do not like this.
Surely it's only my own foolishness, but every time he call'd me lamb, I felt my heart go weak.