All I need is sun. Sun is all I need.

It's the first spring-like Sunday. The air is already warmed up and my senses go crazy even here, in Warszawa, so at my parents' place the soil must have a moist smell and the forest is probably being aired. (I think it was this time last year that I went for a walk with Natalia and we frightened away a small herd of deer.) If I were moaning, I'd say that of course last week, when I visited my parents, the village was dump and cold like the mongrel fur, but having a cup of pu-erh and my flat filled with natural warm light makes the circumstances in which one is not allowed to moan.

Eighty percent of my body is a serene kind of the inner calm today. I recall Friday so that I won't forget that it was when six cats happened in the big and warm house of A., who is extremely knowledgeable about tea, wines and the history of politics, and apparently doesn't give a shit about our cultural picture of a woman as the object of observation (meaning the never-ending how do I look stuff). There's a lot of good content in her. Content of a great standard. And then I think back to yesterday's Robert's radio broadcast, which was filled with women's voices due to the eighth of march. He played Tracy Chapman at my request and it's always more than pleasant to me to influence what's happening on air – even if the broadcaster is an acquaintance of mine.

But. Still I can't get rid of this dark sediment deep inside me.

Today in the grocery a man dropped a bag with grapefruits; one of them rolled towards my shoes. I picked it up; it was big, orange and warm too, I guess. I handed it to the man. He smiled. It made me think of the pear thing in the "City of Angels" movie.

And then I took a streetcar and all passengers chose to sit on the right side, avoiding the rays of sunlight. I stayed on the left one alone and I felt like a black cat lying on the cobblestones in the summer afternoon, thinking that all those people inside their the houses just don't know what's good. In the same streetcar there was a gay couple and it was the prettiest, energetically the most pleasant looking couple of strangers I've seen in the last few months.

I think about it all to chase the unease off, to wash the sediment away. Cause I still make my attempts, I do it blindfold and nervously, but I do. On the other hand, the songs by Tracy Chapman irritate my senses, pointing at the most sensitive part of me; they remind me of my longings and desires. And? I've just purchased her latest album in the internet. But after all, who ever said I was consistent in my actions?