My father has an aquarium that he keeps in the basement of our house. I rarely go to the basement; I fed the fish for the first time last week.
In the same basement is a small liquor collection. My father placed a long table by the shelf and named this spot his “mini bar.” Nobody, not even my father, drinks by the mini bar.
In my room is a desk cluttered with unread books, soiled tissues, and empty beer bottles. The beer tastes like glorified piss, but I drink it nonetheless.
Many months ago I saw these dolls perched on top of a shelf in a well-lit thrift store. My mind pendulum-ed between are those Rococo dresses and should I write a poem.
I got an internship out of town last summer and I didn’t know anyone in the city. I often went to brunch on my own. This unagi dish was bland and the eel tasted like paper with a wisp of salt and pepper.
I used to walk around downtown after work in search for quiet Vietnamese places. I was alone, of course, but the tea was always fragrant and warm.
Whenever I ran out of things to do I read blogs, I watched old volleyball videos, and I took pictures of my long hair that always looked disheveled no matter what I did.
Another summer brunch, another lonesome meal. This one was taken at a Korean cafe that served, um, “white people food.”
I craved soup one evening and watched Grey’s Anatomy while savoring tofu jjigae. The side dishes were good too, the bean sprouts more so than the kimchi.
It was beautiful, that city. Maybe one day I will be able to call it home.
The title of this post is a quote from Susan Sontag’s On Photography. All photos were taken using the Huji app; the captions were written a few weeks back.