Chapter one: Clementines and flowers

I love things that can love me back. I saw a pair of peeled clementines arranged on a plate in the kitchen.
I had a small bite first, then devoured it whole. An enormous amount of mortal delights conquered my
spirit due to the sweet and citrus flavor that had stimulated the muscles around my cheeks to curl up. It
loved me enough to sweeten its water and melt in my mouth. I loved it enough to take a second bite.

Days like these come and go rarely. I feel utterly adored by the blooming petals of flowers I never cared
to memorize their names. If I had been asked about my favorite flower, I would speak about how the
pink petals of tulips are the softest in my eyes and how I think if heaven is a place, it would be a farm
embedded with them. But tulips are too idealistic for me; they appear as tall, slender women with
elegant features and straightened hair. To be more realistic, I prefer daisies; they are as responsibly wild
as I am.

I like my daily little adventures. Usually, I read on my trips, and sometimes I observe. The buildings on
the verge of skyscraping but never enough to reach and kiss the clouds, avenues decorated with young
homeless mothers moving hither and thither, and old traffic police looking for a new bait. I sit in a
disgustingly crammed taxi and stare at drivers passing by. When the lights turn red, they turn their faces
looking for destruction, and sometimes look at me from their luxurious vehicles with unpronounceable
names, meeting my proletariat eyes, staring in strange perplexity. By the confidence of a glass shield
parting us, I stare back and see no eyes since they almost always wear dark-stained sunglasses.