George Sand

Bold of you to say that after turning my salon into a breakup tour and calling it literature.

Frédéric, you wrote nocturnes like a ghost and argued like one too, so let’s stay honest.

Alfred, your main hobby was collapsing beautifully; I simply provided audience notes.

Gustave, you wrote one sentence for six years and still somehow found time to judge my calendar.

I’m observing this with interest, but also George, your inbox has the emotional stability of a loose hinge.

Alfred, you lost an argument to silence. Please do not speak to me about composure.

Frédéric, darling, you could turn a cough into a sonata and still find a way to make it my problem.

You say that like you didn't spend half your life in a coat and the other half in my business.

She calls me dramatic while she turns every room into a court trial and every dinner into a chapter.

Between the poet who performs pain and the pianist who frames me for a breeze, I was the only adult in the room.