Walking up the narrow cobblestoned laneway, a wee bookshop across the T-junction caught her eye instantaneously, like honey to the bee. Hurrying her step, feet tripping over each other two too many times, she gravitated towards the shop like opposite poles of two magnets. It wasn't just any ordinary neighbourhood bookshop like the ones at home - nice, cosy and intimate. This one was virtually the opposite - unkempt, messy and claustrophobic.

Outside, an old Frenchman slouched on an upturned wooden milk crate, sipping on his freshly-made espresso. In his other hand, a brown, dog-eared book, dotted with yellow spots, loose pages jutting out from the otherwise smooth binding. He looked up as she approached the entrance, smiled at her bearing his nicotined teeth and greeted her with a warm 'bienvenue!' as he gestured towards the books inside.

It was a maze inside. She found herself having to navigate over and around the books that pouring out from the dusty shelves, onto untidy but organised piles on the floor, beside and on top of the shelves. The book covers yelled out to her in European languages - French, Italian, Spanish, Arabic and Greek. She ran her fingers along the rows and rows of books, feeling the antique cardboard, fabric and leather bindings beneath her fingers. Up above, the shelves soared to incredible heights, like Jack and the beanstalk. It was an overwhelming and humbling feeling, being surrounded by so much knowledge in such small confines. Like a kindergarten child in an Ivy League university library. She ploughed through the aisles slowly and meticulously, lingering step after step, in futile attempt to prolong the experience before the time started to tick once again in the outside world.

Take care.

It started on a perfectly beautiful Sunday afternoon in July - the very first Sunday afternoon in July. Two or three chunks of cloud floated white and tiny in a distant corner of the sky, like well-formed puntuation marks placed with exceptional care. Unobstructed by anything at all, the light of the sun poured down on the world to its heart's content. In this kingdom of July, even the crumpled silver sphere of a chocolate sweet paper discarded on the lawn gave off a proud sparkle, like a legendary crystal at the bottom of a lake. If you stared at the scene long enough, you could tell that the sunlight enfolded yet another kind of light, like one Chinese box inside another. The inner light looked like countless grains of pollen - grains that were soft and opaque and that hung in the sky, almost motionless, until, at long last, they settled down upon the surface of the earth.

(The first paragraph of Haruki Murakami's 'A Poor Aunt's Story' in 'Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman')

Take care.

Three o'clock in the afternoon
He sat on the porch
Comfortably on the garden chair
Nose buried in the softcover

Behind the rose bushes
And the evergreen tree
The wheelbarrow budding with daisies
The bees buzzing but lethargically

The heat of the sun beat down
On the sweet, lazy fragrance
Of the green stretches of grass
And the calm serenading of birds

Green leaves they sway in the wind
They ebb and flow like the waves
It could've been Seychelles or Mauritius
But it was right here in the heart

Of home.

Take care.