I read somewhere that one day the sun will die. The whole world and all of being seem so delicately violent now. All I feel is gratitude and grace for days spent under blossoming sunlight. But there are so many flowers and I don’t know their names. I dream of fireflies and slip. Please, let the birds sunbathe by the lavender river. I bruised myself on fresh paper but someone made me a cup of tea and everything is alright.