Following Munir's recommendation, 'we' went out and got some. Anxiously, tied some squiggly examples of the climber to the green balcony bars. Hey Presto! Instant miracle- from prison cool to tropical paradise in a split second, we dreamt. How delusional.
Soon enough, the snow attacked our plants, killing them all but the purple lettuce in the yellow wellies pot. We never had the chance to measure the passion.
Sitting down and looking out the window I spot the bare, anticlimb, green bars, dodgy drug dealers, the man who refuses to clean up after his german shepherd and the joyous shit-machine bouncing next to him. I'm sad I will never get to find out if the passionflowers would indeed fuck all our other plants, generating a brand new, sexually gratified, inappropriately successful type of balcony garden.
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