Opulence à l’encre.

Opulence in ink. That’s how I always see Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. It’s so rich and thick, like drinking melted Lindor dark truffles, that kind of rich you want to indulge in.

I was browsing through my sister’s books, when I saw her early published edition of the novel. One can tell that it’s been around because it’s semi-moldy, pages are amberish, and the leaves seem frail to touch like thin wafers.

I missed how I felt way back when I first read the novel, so I decided to sulk in a corner, and luxuriate in it.

I suddenly miss NYC.