The leaves from the Birch tree fall wistfully over the table, theres a lazy sway to each before they fall. 

I arrange the table, the porcelain hands holding a fig in offering, a pale face amongst the red onions,

the incense alight and perfuming the world. 

The backdrop of a Chinese temple, the table dipped in velvet.

A nostalgic purple,

the plum shade of nostalgia,

oriental melancholia. 

I saw a corner of my soul on the table, a desire to create a timeless world in which endless stories can be related,

retold, whispered, captured and kept secret.