she doesn’t know which of the following could've done more damage to her face—laying flat and having the mediterranean morning UV light spill over her bare face, still glistening from her nighttime retinol routine (it’s a known dermatological fact that one must wear sun protection the next day after applying retinol), or laying on her side, turning her back to the sun and to him as well, of which could potentially give her fine lines and asymmetry in her face if the side sleeping position becomes a habit, if it hasn’t already, night after night, by the time she wakes up in her 40s all will be beyond repair. she is restless. she’s drafting a letter in her head. she doesn’t know if she’s going to eventually print out the letter down the hotel lobby, or write it with hand, she knows she has beautiful handwriting, cursive, but she doubts if anyone could fully comprehend it once the ink sets on the paper, not even herself perhaps. maybe she’s going to send him an email, but what would the subject be? and when the idea of an email turns into a long iMessage, she recoils, all things romantic and elegant turn into hysteria. how terrifying. she feels that she’s exhausted all possible ways of writing to him that the content of the letter becomes less and less significant and that she no longer wishes to write him anything anymore. none of the scenes suit her manicure, cadmium red medium, plain and short, almond shaped, I like your nails, they say, she gets more compliments when she wears those crazy long acrylic nails. He said it sooner, let’s not continue this, on behalf of her brilliant decision which was only rehearsed in her head, many times, but her tongue and vocal cords just won’t cooperate, it’s a bodily failure. Holistic, ecological, planetary, cosmological, she is part of everything, her decisions are part of everything, Spinoza comes to mind, whatever, he didn’t say such words, but she’s sure they will get along if given the right context. Going back in time, an ennui then estranged, nothing matters much, she thinks of her mother must had been looking at the same view of the Mediterranean Sea, many years ago, possibly even the same hotel she’s stayed, supernatural family curse on one side of the spectrum, psychoanalytical obsession with childhood history on the other. Supernatural, she realizes that she rarely see this word in the discourse, there must be better words, precision, hermeneutics, but whatever, she thought as a kid she used to confuse supernature with superstructure, then she thought of a conversation she had with him once, to make herself sound more sophisticated in her head, many years ago, she added, where they really trash talked Marx, but a different Marx than whatever Marx really is about, a Marx bleached by contemporary sinosymbolism, super weird, she’s realized how naive and bourgeois, but more importantly, unintellectual she was to talk shit about Marx, not whimsical at all. She wants to erase that part of the memory, along with a lot of insignificant human encounters where she managed to embarrass herself. Would she want to erase the memory of him as well? this question automatically arises since she’s thinking about eliminating guilt and grief by eliminating memory, not that she is able to do such, her mind is drifting along with the morning tides outside of their balcony. She wouldn’t want to forget him, she’s decided, out of practical reasons, too much material proof, and like, instagram story flashbacks, it would be a futile attempt, she doesn’t have such discipline for keeping things organized, not her kitchen, not her wardrobe, and certainly not the vast sea of digital objects, their material quality, and data stores in god knows where, she can’t imagine the amount of labour, it might take just a lifetime and at the end when she clears all the caches, being reminded everyday in the process of this digital purging, memory amplified, hyper-memory, she will be left with nothing but all the immaterial proof of his existence. another terrifying thought, she shakes her head and walks to the balcony, a perfect life, she thinks, and calls room service.