Dear Taxi-Driver,
I can’t stop thinking about your taxi. It was a couple of weeks ago and you were taking us to paint a mural, but bloody hell your car was a work of art. Everything was covered in tape, but not just simply tape, shredded tape, patched tape, black tape, colourful stripes inside and outside the vehicle. I am curious what will happen when you start exploring the 3D options that can arise with tape. The seats had a large square pattern, speaking nicely to the squares on the doors. I loved the steering wheel the most, I think, tiny strips of torn tape of multiple colours. And the sign – Taxi was in tape. You were so big in the little car. To my foreignness you looked like a Mongolian film-star-warrior-poet, though I am pretty sure you are a Nepali taxi driver. I saw you just a couple of days ago driving to Jawalakhel, and I went to wave, then caught myself when I remembered that we never even spoke.
Well, I love your car.
Bernardine
Sociable Non-Science 