P—W  V° 01:10


by Aiko Masubuchi

“The delight in the moment that you notice something that you hadn’t noticed before” – Akasegawa Genpei

My friend studies the death of trees. From what I understand, nobody seems to quite know when exactly a tree is pronounced dead.

His research requires him to calculate the amount of carbon moving through different tree species with contrasting hydraulic architecture.

“Cup your hands over your mouth. Breathe out. Breathe in. What air is new? What air is old? What air is holding onto particles that smell like you?”

In bed, I find out that we generate heat, especially when I’m alone. It is this heat that helps us sleep.

“Put your covers over your head. Wriggle your toes. Stretch up, stretch forward. What part of the sheets is cold? Is it warm like you?”

Underneath, the fabric is loud. Outside — ambulances, feral cats, shattering glass, a shoe hanging from the power line knocking gently against the window.

“I swear I saw a raccoon cross my window. I’m on the third floor and it was big.”

When you close one eye at a time repeatedly, left-right-left-right, the curtains shift back and forth. In darkness, it is difficult to tell which eye is capturing which part of the night.

“I want to see you like my teeth see my lips.”

Which is to say, only sometimes. Most days, they never meet.

2021 © A.Masubuchi