...

Am rather all right. The holiday makes everything better, at least for the first weeks. I can stay in bed whenever my head is awfully full, and it's always pleasant to have my father around.
Too much holiday is not good. Perhaps. It often leaves me feeling dreadfully romantic, due to the complete lack of demand and competition. It leaves me feeling that even if I miss out on every single opportunity to be celebrated, I can still hold on to the possibility of falling in love marvelously.
The kind that you remember as an ever-after story. It doesn’t matter, really, how it ends. Nobody ever cares to know. It ends when the kiss is still going strong, the rain pouring, the music playing.

Oh, have I gone completely nuts?
Maybe, but there’s no harm – it’s still a holiday.

After all, I have to be prepared to be absolutely sane again when the holiday’s over. Come back to the thinking that if I don’t keep my jaws in place, and my hand in a tight fist, I might end up in a solitary rattan chair, doing my knitting with a complicated pattern, rocking back and forth for the sake of my cats’ amusement because they’re deprived of those woolen balls that I would undoubtedly be needing for my knitting.

Things always do come together in the end, don’t they?

Oh, and I love adjectives.