Mourning normalcy

Lunch with a friend. She tells me about her recent holiday in Antigua. How her girlfriend went to L.A. and bought plenty of clothes, because it’s so cheap and they’re so cool. There’s a dark blue pencil in my book. It still smelled of thick paint when I bought it. I liked the smell -like one would like the smell of petrol-. Somewhere in China there’s a factory that smells like this. I miss my normalcy.