If I ever invent a lipstick shade, I will call it Ennui.
For the sleepless neurotic female poets with shadows under their heavy-lidded eyes, a cigarette dangling from their lips, and the broken sighs of dreams that have receded like black dregs at the bottom of a coffee cup, dregs still smelling faintly of the rich full-bodied espresso that only an hour ago filled the cup with its sensuousness; but dregs nonetheless.
