The Host

For the past several weekends, I had guests staying at my house. This reminds me that maybe I should dig back that very-old-and-now-forgotten plan to get a new place. A real home. With a matching fork and spoon and at least two plates of the same kind, or a sofa that was not bought in 1981.

My bedroom after some effort of tidying up looks ok, trust me. I mean, if you think my bedroom is bad, you shouldn't see my kitchen and living room then.

There's a highway next to my apartment building now. My favourite tree-covered hills in front of my balcony and bedroom windows are gone. So I've been sleeping 20 metres from a busy highway for about a year now. Yeap, twen-ty.

Though the highway doesn't bother me that much these days, I still dream of waking up in my underpants, grabbing my towel from the balcony because we know it's one of the perks of living next to a jungle to quietness and inhaling the freshest air in the morning. Bliss.