Brison Cafe

The shop is on the second floor. Looking through its window into the garage (a parking lot under the overpass) where taxis, sedans, and tow trucks as well as a few fork lifts are lined up in opposite. Don't know if this is where the towed cars are temporarily parked, waiting for their owners to claim. The space is bordered by green fences which block the view of people if they walk down the street. But the shop's second-floor height gives visual access to this rectangular space. I'm wondering how much space one would need to build a world of its own. Such a space, an enclosure, like an inland forgotten by the bustling city life, a space lost in the torrents of this busy city. For those who live or work in that space, they may only need be protected by the fences to perceive their world merely as thus, self-reliant, self-sufficient, as long as they don't walk outside. What will it look like if people live or work there? I cannot help wondering.

On the walls of the shop, shadows of the passing cars on the overpass are dancing to and fro from time to time. Clouds out there sit quietly on the upper brim of the window pane. Blue, white, no sound. The air in the shop is replete with heavy exhaled cigarette smoke. Almost can't breathe, causing certain headache. But there's something enticing and alluring in the smell. Something ruinous, yet ecstatic. Likely a smell of a disjointed life.

I'm waiting for a person whose absence in front of me will be discontinued and the empty seat, occupied shortly after. Can't imagine what will be happening between us a few minutes later. A troubling relation, somewhat dissuading me to go on. Many things remain vague and obscure to me. Feel like being cursed--by frivolities of life.