11 polka dots

the smell of chinese incense wafting through the air greeted the first day of my gregorian calendar year.

i blinked a couple of times to check whether i'm still at my room or by some unseen force in the universe, i was transported to the indian-owned perfume store near downtown broadway. the store reeks of incense fumes whenever i pass the place. the smell used to pull my breakfast up my mouth but eventually i somehow found a way to tolerate it.

it's papa.

he's my one and only suspect to this crime of setting free the invisible, invasive fumes of the incense.

this is the first day of the year anyway.
there's no other hardcore superstitious person in the family than papa.

arguing with him about the incense is futile. he will only give me his usual lecture about warding off bad spirits via the fumes of incense sticks.

it's supposed to be relaxing; it's supposed to calm the senses, but it suffocates me and it gives me psychedelic visions of the rising zombies of the past, hungry and aiming straight for my naked flesh.

i locked my door and i opened the shutters of the blinds from my windows to ward off the fumes and to bathe my room with the golden glow of this year's morning. nothing symbolic. i just like the sun illuminating my room sometimes. the weather is fuckin cold it bites up to the bones but i could not care less as longs the invasive incense smell escapes my senses.

papa came into my room without warning, inviting more incense smell inside. ugh. there is something ominous about those fumes.

to divert my attention from the colonizing smell, i watched casablanca.

i closed my door.

papa opened it again.
he has his key duplicate.

more incense fumes come uninvited.

it drove me out of the room outside the apartment veranda.

the smell drove me away.

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