Pink is such a sick colour. Not like red or orange which own themselves. Pink comes across as whimsical, flighty and lacking. It’s uncooked meat. It’s a tinge of desire. Anger, hardly a ripple. Subdued. It’s lukewarm passion which little promise of satisfaction.

But then I see the blossom. In trees full. Bursting out in big blousy blooms. And pink has me by the throat, squeezing out every feeling of joy, pleasure and awe. Pink cherry blossom does it for me everytime that I forget my dislike for pink and I just swoon.