Too abstract to decipher
Easter Saturday. Cold wind profuse with embryonic raindrops. I am conditioned to imagine that raindrops are round, to some degree, but these feel like splinters scraping against my skin. Right before my eyes, a pretty picture appears to arrest me. Freshly picked Baby's Breath in front of a red curtain. Who is behind the curtain, I wonder. A raver who lost his teeshirt in a warehouse in Berlin? A lesbian who runs a tea bar in Angel and who is not on Facebook? A happy barber whose pitch-black chest hair is poking through his shiny white shirt? A wrinkled Chinese man whose tea is getting colder than his stare? And who am I today? My reflection is, as usual, too abstract to decipher.