I used to live a minute away from the most gorgeous cherry blossom tree and every spring when it flowered, I went gaga over it. I hated how the blossoms never lasted but loved how, when the petals fell, they carpeted the ground. For a few days, or even a few weeks, a dirty grey sidewalk, a trashcan full to overflowing, a beat up old Toyota Corolla with the windows held together by tape; they'd all be peppered with marshmallow puff pink and transformed into art, into spring, into something amazing. They'd be lifted out of the ordinary. And I reckon, if I'm ever around in Japan during sakura season, I might just explode.