Heading to my sister’s bedroom in Wuhan, my hometown, I grinned at its cleanliness and simplicity. It was flooded with pinkish blue curtains and blueish pink bedclothes enclosed by the purely white walls, as if to soften the insensibility of the overall vibe. A long-legged, big-head toy is placed at the sharp angle of the shelf, so that we people might feel less overwhelmed by the rectangular, knife-like  storage shelves right after  coming in. Besides the baby pink toy is a scarlet rose inserted in a colorless, bulbous frame, towering over the room, like a narcissist beauty looking down the earth waiting for a friend keenly appreciative of her pure talents. The rose, in pure, deep scarlet, has such a transcendental temperament that it becomes almost unreal in the hypochromic surroundings. Starting at its drooping petals, a thought turned over my head: is it likely that the petals are loaded with tiny, invisible Moon Palaces, sharing similar loneliness and ethereality? There was nothing above the rose except for the projections of lamps and daylights, painting an infinite array of latticed squares, reminding me of intricate X-rays that supermen need to cross to penetrate into dangerous places in sci-fi movies. A postmodern, montage coat hanger on the right dragged me back to reality. It resembles a chair that turns backward, with four short “legs” hanging on air and a hollow oval being the “backrest.” How postmodern the furniture is! I wonder which knickknack would have the fortune to sit on it. Maybe it would be the hairless angel in my sister’s toilet cabinet with his distinctive appearance and a big smile, its wings bearing the stamp of needlework, wherein a scratch or stroke against the toy’s natural direction would leave a temporary trace. He must have been a really optimistic angel who would smile so light-heartedly despite the tatty, patchy wings. On second thought, it might not actually be a “he” but declaring itself androgynous, given its snow-white, feminine wings and short, masculine hair. 

       Inside the cabinet, when putting on the first lipstick, I immersed myself in a wet, subtle layer of ripe peach, a hint of juice, and some fresh cream. Unlike Little Ondine’s matte lipstick with the hardcore flavor of grape martini and Lindemans Kriek, it smelt like clusters of green buds in the early spring, whose leaves were tender and flimsy. I could barely distinguish the fruit taste of the lipsticks from my favorite fruit yogurt I drank here. Patches of mangos, peaches, and cereals soaked in a layer of thick liquid, I always get the most fulfillment out of chewing three fruit patches in a row. Compared to diluted milk and heavy bisque, the yogurt grants the just-right density for every gummy taste to linger on my taste bud and fade at the right time to create a sour-sweet aftertaste.

       On the bed, the quilt always allows me to “go gentle into that good night:” as a cloud or a marshmallow, it slowly spreaded brooding warmth through my body. Lying on the pillow, my hands felt an array of abrasive sand at the bottom. When I unconsciously rubbed them over and over again, all was a-shake and a-shiver—rustle and swirl to help one come smoothly into dreams. That night, I was dreamless and peaceful. In the morning, shafts of sunlight pierced the heavy mist and headed to the windows, leaving a taste of the sun on the sheet, trying to cover the subtle scent of long-lasting, covered-in-box cosmetics. Searching under the pillows, I inadvertently found a Chinese knot, the four coins hanging in the middle being ice cold, the knot part being warmer and the silk thread at the bottom felt soft and bushy, assimilating the vicissitudes of life. Sprinkled with the temperature of my culture, I was somehow assured that from just holding the knot, I might come across serendipity and luck in the new year. Whether that comes from my heritage's collective faith I am not sure, and yet I held tightly on to the multi-layered knot at the core, trying to grasp an element of the decorative fabrication's ingenuity.

        After a while, our cat George dropped in to take a nap  — the “boss” in the house, it always takes everywhere inside the house for his territory. Never could I resist the temptation of handling the white Garfield cat who always gazes at us with charmingly naive eyes. Its skin was really smooth, and I could feel, line by line, its feathery fur as I caressed along its spine. Near its tail, the bony feeling was gradually perceptible, reminding me that despite its hairy back, it is still a slim little cat. While being massaged, it constantly purred with satisfaction. Out of expectation, when I approached nearer to play with it, it abruptly scratched me on my palms, lending me much shock and some light scratches — thanks to my quick reaction, I escaped from further attacks. I was indignant at first: why did he misunderstand my good intentions?  This thought quickly diffused when I gazed into its dewy and sleepy eyes and heard it innocently "meow" again: yah, why demanding so much for a cat? Its high, vibrant purring could have been grunts of rejection. With different strengths, languages, and behaviors, how likely would George understand what the massive other species was thinking by lending two long arms out? Or, it could be that George set out to "play" with me in gestures I do not understand. 

         Then I got up from the bed to the wooden chair, or to be exact, several planks with empty intervals that could easily press into my skin. There are intervals where my whole palms can fall into and feel the roughness. But the slight discomfort of sitting soon transformed into the playfulness of my thoughts. I was conscious that I was "sitting" on something due to the stiff texture. It was probably the first time I sensed that I "sat" on something, because one is not usually  aware of the physiological interaction with the chair but on everything else that is more attractive or primary. The awareness entailed by the stiffness did not make me uncomfortable, though. Instead, it prompted me to pay more attention to my state of being, what I saw, what passed through and lingered in my mind, and more in-the-moment thoughts like passing winds. 

         The other side of the room was rather casual than noble: unlike delicate gorgeousness at the gateway, iridescent socks and underclothes casually hang on the dryer, adding some degree of playfulness and creativity to the sparsely populated space. Underneath the wooden rocking chair without cushions, a worn-out carpet imprints the Roman symbols of twelve ancient constellations and a mythic sun that I could barely recognize. I walked to the window and opened it; Unlike the indoor "sun," piles of cold air wuthering outside drifted in, making my warmed cheek tingle and my head calmer. The height of the floor blissfully connect us insiders with the highest point of an outstretched sycamore tree, its withered branches leveling down in a pyramid frame, but one had outgrown his companions with barren twigs and rounded fruit in close clusters, probably wishing to deposit more singing birds in the misty mornings. Popping my head out and turning around, I entered a brand new, no, “brand old” world: loads of rusted bricks lie on a splicing roof, intertwined vines spiraling upward as if it was old enough to grow mustaches. The grotesque architecture looked like something inserted in the scenery, as the trails of time it bears stood out from the urban, pale buildings in a distance. There is always going to be splendidness in whatever inconspicuous object, I smiled. 

       On the tree, bird calls rise one after another. The sounds they made were quite ineffable by words, as each was different in pitch, tone, and timbre. I tried to record every sound on my laptop right after I heard it, but my hands were too slow to record the instantaneous nature. The last impressive one was like touches of giggles, each sound dropping in approximately one pitch lower than the last one, forming a quick series as if a naughty child was laughing at someone who ran after but could not overtake him. Before, the birdsongs were more regular, with one squeaky loud twitter followed by a couple of lower, deeper hooks. I could hear individual upslurs and downslurs, more musical than the mechanical trills just now. At the moment, some slower, one-second-each twit, two-syllabus cuckoo entered, a high-tempo one following a lower sound, creating the image of a balloon being squeezed frequently and emphatically. Away from the roof, there might be a cuckoo or a crow producing profound northern drawls to lay the grounding for animate birds surrounding, which somehow reminds me of Game of Throne’s opening song. Forging ahead, some tedious, full coos, sounded like “hoo hoo hoo-hoo”, ended the afternoon symphony temporarily, its dreariness incompatible with the airy, evocative songs in the golden noon. This song lasted much longer than the last ones, allowing me to finally settle my typing hands without worrying too much on interfering with the fleeting sounds of nature with its click, click, and click. However, the keyboard seemed to blend in the symphony as a drummer committed to making mechanical, metal beats. Later at around 4:40 pm, birds sang in a bell-like, less frequent way in the same pitch, probably ‘la’ in a comparative pitch, like plates of iron rubbing each other. Following this key melody was the echoing background music with less orderly tones, sometimes low like drummers drumming rapidly on a tree, and sometimes dense as in a jungle. After a while, myriads of changes chimed on, and for the first time, I wished I had more than two ears to grasp a couple of different sounds in a second: a cry that resembles a piercing ambulance or a shrill whistle, that flows smoothly with the wind, that warbles out one soprano after a bass. The peaceful surface of the sky was broken when a flock of birds, soared through the window with their wings waving in the air, weaving the shape of a word: freedom.