She would count the syllables as if they were keys to unlock the mysterious sounds of things and people around her. Sliding the beads from her necklace one by one, making sure to equalize their rhythm to the flawless sound geometry formed by the numbers
5, 7, 5
invented by Japanese masters.
She would sit on an old leather stool with cracks and holes in a jazzy bar, painting and writing Haiku’s to bless the time and space floating through her.
She would probably write down these lines after putting down Haruki Murakami’s After Dark. Maybe she was Mari herself.
"Smokey whiskey, still
Waves ripple, thick ice cubes clink
Walnut double bass"