I’m staring into my hot cup of tea, counting the perfectly shaped bubbles that have gathered around it. The bubbles come in different sizes, but nonetheless they are perfectly round. This tea is perfect; it soothes me, calms me, and makes me unreasonably happy. My unfinished letter is sitting on my lap; I’ll finish it as soon as I have my last sip. This night feels undone, like an unfinished puzzle. But I have no other way of ending it. It’s another Saturday night, where nothing is perfect except the bubbles in my cup.

One Comment, RSS

  1. mazdak January 22, 2006 @ 6:27 pm

    you know what?
    the more complex a thing is the harder it is for it to be perfect.this is why simple things like bubbles in your cup of tea get perfect much more easily.

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