| Surrounded by a dying population of yellow flowers, I'm pricked mercilessly by the flashbulbs of memory makers. A vendor washes his hands in the fountain and stone prongs above us. Why are there no bugs in the garden of this sweltering city? They buzz by the lights strung above the promenade, and the cars racing circles round us create their own wind. I take a picture of two people taking each other while someone pictures me. Still no one smells the flowers, and still no one picks them. The balloon seller lets the sullen girl hold his balloons until she's happy enough to float away. She stands firm, and where are crickets chirping? And are they celebrating too? Do they wish out of the handbags of young women posing? |