I came home to fallen flowers; a heap of dried petals on marble marmalade, a game of forget-me-nots. It was all so very intimate and still and afternoon. And I couldn’t shake that I was being asked to bear witness to something, a sort of quiet desperation of a flower’s life; either that or a strong wind. I decided that the best thing to do was nothing, to leave them be for the day. After all, how does one even come to clean up a mess of flowers? A broom?

In most ways their listlessness made it all the more beautiful. Dusty old Mexico apartment. Soft white teeths scattered like breadcrumbs beneath scantly cladded stems by way of forceful entry. A window open, a glass jar tipped. A long time ago there was water, now that would have made a real mess; but it’s all too hot for such a disaster. No no, this was a petit means of chaos, of headlong story of flowers by a forgotten name. And while Mijali is away I find them all the more necessary to remain. I’ll do something about it in the morning.

Ciudad de México, Abril ‘ 23