For the seven days of National Day holiday, I plan to devote all my daytime and three quarters of nakedness to the ardent sun on a suburban turf. Thank God, for making me so impoverished that I am obliged to enjoy this lone, peaceful sunbathing, instead of touring to other places on earth. Toddlers with their parents are out on this vast turf too. Kite runners, their square, triangular pieces soaring up high, dream-fashion, immobile in the melting blue, run with their hairy calves tensed. Toddlers look up, their wonder-struck eyes registering every element of this particularly balmy day: the blueness of the space, the greenness of the grass, the limpid shadows and shine dividing the world with geometrical neatness. Perhaps I too, owe my present happiness partly to some impressions I unconsciously stored in my childhood. Under this sun, at this moment, on this prickly dry turf sloping towards nirvana, my supine torpid spirit prays: God forbid anyone to be stripped of this freedom, and let every soul experience this singular, prototypical, classical peace and euphoria now and then in their twisted life, because, without these moments of soothing and healing, our lives would have been unbearable.