I'm not as prepared, 9 bottles of red wine, 4 bottles of white and two unknown bottles of wine from Madagascar. And since I don't drink alone these won't be used until shelter in place is lifted.
Dearest Rosemary,
It
was a limpid dreary day, hung as in a basket from a single dull star. I
thank you for your letter. Outside, I perceive what may be a collection
of fallen leaves tussling against a trash can. It rings like jazz to my
ears. The streets are that empty. It seems as though the bulk of the
city has retreated to their quarters, rightfully so. At this time, it
seems very poignant to avoid all public spaces. Even the bars, as I told
Hemingway, but to that he punched me in the stomach, to which I asked
if he had washed his hands. He hadn’t. He is much the denier, that one.
Why, he considers the virus to be just influenza. I’m curious of his
sources.
The
officials have alerted us to ensure we have a month’s worth of
necessities. Zelda and I have stocked up on red wine, whiskey, rum,
vermouth, absinthe, white wine, sherry, gin, and lord, if we need it,
brandy. Please pray for us.
You
should see the square, oh, it is terrible. I weep for the damned
eventualities this future brings. The long afternoons rolling forward
slowly on the ever-slick bottomless highball. Z. says it’s no excuse to
drink, but I just can’t seem to steady my hand. In the distance, from my
brooding perch, the shoreline is cloaked in a dull haze where I can
discern an unremitting penance that has been heading this way for a
long, long while. And yet, amongst the cracked cloudline of an evening’s
cast, I focus on a single strain of light, calling me forth to believe
in a better morrow.
Faithfully yours,
F. Scott Fitzgerald
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