let lemons be angry

When the music plays it will be in an orange room with a purple rug, and those muji chairs that rock softly on the floor with padded backings. Beanbags that sink and spread, bowls of goldfishes and pink pebbles, a trampoline in the middle of everything and giant balls of every color let loose in the corners. Polaroids strung from the ceiling and very loud light breezy music streaming through gramophones, and every tile on the floor lights up so everyone has to dance. And there will be people floating on inflatable fuschia beds on a square pool of turquoise, wearing psychedelic swimwear and sequinned sunglasses. There will be no roof. And sun, there will always be the sun. This is sweet potato pie.