let lemons be angry

Pleasing Things

On my table: cup from the shop i'd visit every week if I lived in Tokyo, hairpin from Tokyo 1999, Power Ranger boxing toy that used to contain candy from July 2007, scissors from the Amazing Art Shuttle.

On my shelf: teacups I bought hoping to transfer illustrations onto but never did, The Peak sign from Hongkong.

A place I want to be in. From the Biennale.

At my lake: a man enjoying life more than the rest of us know how to.

Triumphant skies.

By the same lake. People knowing how to enjoy life. "Very pretty," I told the little girl, and the mother said, "Thank you." I think she thought I was referring to her daughter. There was a Chinese boy sitting beside them on the floor. I don't think any Chinese boy would come have a conversation with me if I sat on the floor.

I can imagine this couple all swanky and cool in their teens, and still they would not look as perfect as they do now.

Overall, I am about independent explorations and contented sighs on walks home. When I remember to worry, I worry. Most of the time I try to forget. I do not plan or wait. I find myself walking in places I never thought I would be.

And so the colour of my life is no longer grey. Most days it is a rosy blue. Like Amelia's top that I wore the morning I walked home in the rain. Calm and blue, the kind of colour you can drink and go to bed remembering the flavour of. Grey had no taste; grey was only the memory of taste.