Let's cover the walls in words and our skin in long sprawling sentences, scrawl our names in magic marker all over the windshields of the cars on the street and the windows of our homes. We'll vandalize the neighborhood but only with the text of the Great Gatsby, covering everything in beautiful disillusionment. Let's eat salad for lunch and tell ourselves that we enjoy it more than the burger we eat alone. Then we'll return to work and imagine that we meant to end up here, in our offices, behind our computers, as if we weren't surprised to find ourselves here: someone's assistant, someone's lost friend, someone's lover. Let's keep secrets, but only from ourselves. Let's pretend that we are happy until we are.