I went to see the old Gypsy woman the other day. I wanted her to read my future from my fallen out hair.
The old clock on the wall was ticking away the heavy waves of time. She was sitting at the table reading a newspaper. Her coffee cup had left a perfect round stain on the front page, where large font letters were screaming at the top of their lungs about the world’s disasters.
There was a lamp in her room, and the lampshade was peach-colored.
In its orange glow, sadness began to melt away until it became a sweet, sticky puddle at the bottom of my consciousness.
I didn’t care to know my future anymore. We talked about flowers.