Plastic flowers, these. I get four days off a month and that is only because they don't want hindrances in their pleasure. The cracks on my ceramic vase, blackened with dirt and I wonder if those pretty petals would come alive if I fill that vase with my tears. Perhaps, it would be futile. And so I don't cry. //caption// Plastic flowers, these. The ones that I'm trying to arrange in my cracked china clay vase. Not too long, I had seen this same vase in their house. When it broke last day, they gave it to Ma. She brought it home with her and now it's mine, she says. So, I'm arranging these plastic flowers that, till yesterday lay in negligence, in this vase. In this piece of ceramic I can call my own. Plastic flowers, these.
