Every human being knows this place. It is inside your mind. Deep inside, where rocks speak, and trees scratch each other's back. Except for Mr. Li who runs an illegal distillery in the bushes, no one cooks here. Eat some nectar, when you're hungry, or some of that spinach that comes floating down the river. With such healthy fare everyone lives to be a hundred and seventy-five.
Oh, I'm talking nonsense, again; we are really immortal…

Goldfish are unique among fish. They are aware of human beings and recognize them. They know when you should go to bed, and they know who has access to the refrigerator.

Not that they are smarter than other fish; but for two thousand years they have been selected by us for their color —and, incidentally, for their affection. We like goldfish because they like us. Goldfish who don't care about us don't exist.


(The wisteria blossoms are dots—the tip of the brush charged with lake-red and pointed to the center. The fish-tail is painted really fast: three lines, up and down, crossing each other like orchid leaves.)