dawn, day, dusk
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dawn, day, dusk

Day / Dusk / Day: 3 Persons

Day: Aurore

There is so much movement in the marble sculptures, a lightness so contrary to the quality of stones. One girl (Aurore, 1900, by Denys Puech) lifts up her long, draping hair that envelops her, looking up and smiling from where her hair parts. At some places, the marble is so translucent, her hair so feather-light. That same night, Ujeza complains of her hair — how voluminous it is, bending over and letting it waterfall over her head. She has that airiness of Aurore. She has that energy of an eternal inner child that forever makes her stand out in a crowd.

Aurore, 1900, by Denys Puech
Aurore, 1900, by Denys Puech

Dusk: medieval musician

An old man is playing festive tunes on the flute in the archway of the Louvre. He stomps, shakes, glides his feet, and the bells on either of his ankles clatter and jingle. The instruments accompany each other superbly. Here is a one-man band. Here is a medieval musician, playing in what used to be a fortress in his time.

As I walked away, he put his hands together and bowed his head, and we thanked each other.

Day: Frédéric Chopin

“Frédéric Chopin!” A man with long curly hair on his head, a briefcase in his hand, walks towards where I just came from. He fixes his gaze on the ground, strides intently, and murmurs to himself fervently. He looks up at me as we cross path, “Frédéric Chopin!” He points to the direction I just came from, the tomb of Chopin. I gave him a nod (“I know, I just paid my respect!”) and a smile (“Please, do carry on being a lunatic!”). Falling a few paces behind, a younger woman tries to keep up with him. She smiles at me apologetically (“Sorry, that he is what he is.”). I smile back (“Not at all; Wonderful, that he is what he is!”). As she and I cross path, we exchange a shared understanding for the madman. As I wander on, behind me I hear: “Ah…Chopin! Aaaaah…”




This is a collection of short stories—micro-memoirs—for grapefruits, shoulders, volleyballs, Eurasian coots, grassy hills, monsters under the bed, laughters, and the like that lie in life’s riverbed. I crouch, look, pick them up, and spin them into language for you, my readers.

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An artist in, of, for, at life. My very life is my performance art. I write short and sweet (and savory) stories and poems in this grand performance ( •◡•) ♪

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