A worn sock was lying on the vastness of a stage and dreaming alone. I longed to seek refuge in the dreamy sock as my lust for life grew. The dreaminess of the sock domed over my head, when mother’s cry rattled my ear the day after the Cappuccino.
Since I ran away, father and I talked less and less.
Not until fourteen months later did he call me one Friday morning. As before, there were only bad things happening.
“Lotus, last week, my young cousin Leng died.”