i was adding butter into some yellow sludge called banana cake when suddenly, out of the blue, i asked my sister "what does home feel to you"
she said "this is home"
I remember the thing closest to home, is the red roses i see in paris, the chill air I felt when i stepped out of claridges
i kept stirring the mixture, my mind as cloudy as the white foam
i felt so wrong when everything is so right
"maybe someday, I'll write."
"i'll open a bakery, one section labelled homemade, the other patisserie."
"you think its hard to make a movie? even one with a small budget?"
" i think its sad to stop dreaming"
and the kitchen was suddenly immersed in the smell of a sweet answer.