Ghosts.

When I die, I want to be cremated, my ashes placed into beautiful little vials for Manon and Gilles to wear as necklaces, and is that too much? I don’t want to force them into therapy, but there is absolutely no way I will be entombed in a box. Claustrophobia would kill me, and I understand that oh my God I’m already DEAD, but there are certain things that cross over to the other side. Claustrophobia is one of them.

Fortunately, I’m still happily entwined in the world of the living. On the weekends, I come to this secluded spot to dream about how the rest of my life will unfold. You’ll be happy to know that it involves fabulous parties with powerful, influential people, an Upper East-Side pied-à-terre, leather pants, twelve trips to Morocco, diamonds, and Ryan Gosling. I’ve thought it all through, and it’s GOOD.

To get to this sacred spot, head south through the knot garden, past the orangerie. You’ll arrive at a seductive, silent wood, and Robert Frost wishes he had written his poem HERE. I’m sure it’s haunted at twilight. The spiritual energy is spine-tingling and I can almost feel the ghosts of this château dancing around. Someday I will be one of them. Then the party will really begin, loves.

– M