After several trips to the supermarket to pick out several each time, and still not getting enough of the stone fruit, how does one quell a craving for white peaches? Why, trot to the market at closing time, and pick up an entire tray for $2, of course! And have about five a day to ensure they don't all go bad.

And so it was, how a girl came to stuff herself with white peaches all week. Never minding the juice running down her arms, or the peach-mush getting stuck between her teeth. Or placing her elbow on an armrest and accidentally discovering her elbows were still sticky an hour later.



The Diving Bell and the Butterfly gave us no reprieve, N and I, last night. There we were, two girls, with our alcohol and pasta and more after-dinner drinks, thinking we'd indulge in a lovely french film to end the week. And it was heart-breaking. The whole bleeding time. It never let up. But then again, that's life (or a lack of) ain't it? You'd never guess from the movie poster the excruciating wrenchedness of the story.

But the colour - oh, it was lovely. I didn't want it to end, though my heart was already shattered ten minutes into the show. The torture! But the beauty, too. And the sheer torment of having the ability to see. Those were sombre moments. N, thoughtful as she took a bite of her Pear and Blueberry Cheese Tart, and me pensively staring at the patterned foam on my mocha latte.



It's cliche, but y'know, there's an awful lot to be thankful for. To be charmed by. To fall in love with. To breathe in. To hold in your arms til the passing of time is no longer a container of moments but becomes the moment itself.

From Junichiro Tanizaki's In Praise of Shadows, which I bootlegged borrowed from the Library,

... Where lies the key to this mystery? Ultimately it is the magic of shadows. Were the shadows to be banished from its corners, the alcove would in that instant revert to mere void.