303

303pm, I loaded the sculpture in the back seat and added more money in the meter. I saw the color of ocean behind me, had to go taste the blue. It's 303pm; found 6 pennies by the next meter I encountered, it's an abundant day.

Ocean smells like home; I let the sand filled my socks and shoes. The roaring waves reminded me of the high tide I grew up with in Taiwan. Our ocean is more naive, more friendly, like the uncle who's always drunk but always welcome strangers and adore children. The ocean on this side of the north Pacific wears high heels and make up, her brand new bikini can easily out perform stinky uncle's torn t-shirt.But I miss uncle's drunken stories, they are for everybody who walks by the ocean. Beach is our home, is where we belong. But when you visit the beach on this side of Pacific, it is blondes' home, it smells good but not open for your drunken stories. The flip flops look quite the same, but the ones here don't tolerate your shame.


I miss home, from this side of the Pacific.
Sending my finger prints home, by the white foam of the high tide, when will it reach home?