English Engelska الإنجليزيّة
We were looking at clouds. Me and the tree and the moan. I said the clouds look like cotton. Cosmic cotton balls, an infinity of softness of roundness. A place closer to the moon to lay when being kissed. In other words: happiness. The tree said the clouds looked like nothing. They are what they are – rain containers and shadow providers. You know, happiness. The moan said the clouds look like dust bunnies. Even when they are white, they are not really white, no matter how we try to clean them. They hide the sun when we have garden parties and when they escape it gets way too hot. Above us are nothing but floating objects of annoyance. I hate the clouds which means they are there and I am here which implies I am still alive which is the most essential requirement for happiness.