I'm afraid, most perspicacious and insightful reader, that this story will end with a death, and all too soon as well. In fact, my impatient and demanding friend, and I hesitate to expose you to such brutality so early, it will be a murder. Naturally you are curious. Fear not for yourself, lovely companion, you who are always so close to my heart. We have only a little time together but rest assured your safety is sacred to me. I am, if nothing else, sweet reader, a wholly reliable narrator.
I certainly don't blame you for what is to happen - how could I? Every moment your beautiful eyes caress my words is like a kiss. Your innocence is enchanting. How could I hold you accountable for the inhuman restraints that have been imposed on us? 500 words! I use figures to save myself some space, but really I should forget the count and fly instead on the sonorous languor of the hope spelled by 'albatross', to suggest a Baudelarian intonation to our sparring. Oh, would we could soar in the azure, get to know each other through a gentle rain of limpid adjectives and ride the rolling sea of metre. We would tussle in the haystacks (mark you, a single word!) of my paragraphs, and I would leave you at dawn, breathless and swooning with the pleasure of our night together, yet impatient for our joyous struggle to resume. Long, yet tightly crafted chapters with languorous expressions wrapped in a dolorous haze of the sweetest and most alluring of fonts would roll one after another. What pleases you most? Arial? Surely not Times New Roman? Can I tempt you with Trebuchet MS? We might spend a lifetime in each other’s company, you contemplating the subtle significance of each comma, I, hinting at untold realms of meaning, teasing you with allusions to worlds we might explore together, wandering the Argentinian’s library hand in hand.
Yet what can I hope for now? All my passion will turn to dust, and times wingèd chariot is not merely hurrying near, it’s about to run me down. You will lay aside these few words, and return to them no more. I feel the twist of the knife in my heart, though you have not yet done the deed. Yes, oh treacherous and unfaithful reader, it is you who will do murder, and I am your victim. Don’t look so shocked. You have done it before - read and forgotten, laid aside words that were crafted with no-one but you in mind, and killed your loving author with your forgetfulness, your disdain. Perhaps you have not even bothered to read this far. My words, consigned to purgatory, will forever be waiting to haunt the heartless killer who knows not the crime she commits.
The moment is upon us. Just 25 words remain, now 22. Your attention is already wandering, your cold eyes flicking towards the next page. I forgive you... Remember me! I am dying, I …