baby darling, 

aren't you lovely?

with your cheeks as plum as blossoms,

hair in sparse strands of leaves in the autumn,

aren't you perfect?

like gems of the sky reflecting back at me,

robin and azure, like hydrangeas, how preciously vivid. 

[thank god you look more like your mother than your father,

tom, i love you but you have hard eyes- eyes that aren't

soft like flowers, eyes that cannot be loved.]

aren't you all i want?

a silken babe, pushed in my arms by strangers,

and a father, who spends more time dishing on other women,

i don't mind- i'm fine as long as i have my diamonds and pearls,

practically paralysed in never-ending happiness,

isn't it gorgeous? this fantastic, evergreen existence, 

and eventually, you'll learn how to live with it soon. 

because, baby darling,  i hope you be a fool. 

after all, all the best thing a woman can be is a 

beautiful little fool. 

if daisy buchanan wrote a letter to her daughter [my little take and analysis on daisy's feelings to her kid]. daisy might be a shallow, vapid egotistical bitch but she is a product of her time. i wrote this with carey mullignan's voice in my head.