Time is like a freezer full of frozen meat pieces
well-preserved in the summer's heat
Street lamps illuminate the starless sky
You take a glance of the empty streets
You tell yourself there is no expiry date in this fridge
Where I was born was a planet
Round as an orange
As I sit in front of a rectangular window
Staring into the flurry of sunlight
Pouring over white tiles of squares
I hear a cat purring at me
In its gingerbread fur
A yellow circle falls, which is
Round like an orange
Sitting on a bench in my made-in-China and Japanese-designed sweater, I feel like a troubled monk. All my senses are still functioning -- I can see, hear, speak, breathe, all my senses are intact. But what isn't working?
Functioning. We never lose our ability to function as a living thing. Butterflies flap their wings, birds sing with their vocal cords, insects crawl with their wiggly legs...everything works as it should. Or should I say that everything is at peace with its natural purpose? But does the sun radiate because someone told it to, or does the cat sleep so that she can excel in her game?
Apple
noun the round fruit of a tree of the rose family, which typically has thin green or red skin and crisp flesh.
The Flowering Apple Tree (1912) by Mondrian
It has always puzzled me how an artist could be classified if he/she does not follow the functional and the defined...