The Chilli sauce and Ketchup at Jack's Place

The chilli sauce and ketchup met on Table 29 in Jack's place.

Standing side-by-side,
day-in-and-out,
in the dimly-lit restaurant,
with slightly too-cold air-conditioning...

It was hard for them to not to fall in love

Against the checked
green-and-white plastic table cloth,
they made an attractive
couple.

They longed for the next time
to be poured on or beside each other
on the same corner of a plate
or a dedicated saucer,
so that
they could swirl
into
one
another
and
make
hot
sweet
love.

Little Red Riding Hood went to visit the witch

"Go eat a little piece of shit," said the witch to Little Red Riding Hood, who asked back,

"But why?" in her act-innocent manner.

"You said you wanted to bewitch the wolf, right? Since you are in love with him?"

"Well, I wouldn't say I'm in love with him, but yes... I want him to fall for me."

"Then go and eat a little piece of shit. I mean his shit. It's actually a fairly economic spell, you know."

"That's disgusting! I asked you for a love potion!"

"Gee," said the witch as she lit up another cigarette and thought about how it didn't pay to be kind, "As if you'd know more than me. You must have been reading too much stupid teenage novels or what. Anyway, if you really want it in potion form, then pay me about a thousand bucks or so, and I'd give it to you in potion form. Liquid, right? In your little world, all potions have to be in liquid form, right?"

"They tend to be... It's something for me to put in his food, right?" Little Red wanted to start devising a plan.

"No, you'd have to take it yourself. Why would you think the problem is with him? For not being in love with you? Of course you are the one who needs the potion, to make you better, so that he'd fall for you."

"Tsk," The Little Red pulled up her riding hood over her head. She did not like the idea that she was not good enough for the wolf. She was also disappointed at how straight forward the affair would be, and she wouldn't have to devise of any schemes to show off her deviousness. Yet she couldn't forget how the wolf snubbed her. Who was he to give her the cold shoulder, right? What the fuck? She must make him love her.

"So?" the witch exhaled her smoke into Little Red's face, "Will it be the potion for you, or not? It usually cost a thousand and six hundred and sixty-six. But since you're so cute as to wanna do it with a wolf, I'd let you have it for a discount."

"How much?"

"Maybe ten percent? You'd have to pay sixty percent as deposit first though. If you're okay with it, then just fill out this form, and sign here. You gotta give me his correct name and address so I don't get the wrong wolf, yeah? And any descriptors or whatever. You wouldn't want the wrong wolf falling for you."

"Don't worry I'd show you his photo. How much would it cost for having two wolves fall for me then?"

"Woah! Woah!" The witch widened her eyes, "You're kind of a sick little girl eh. You really didn't look like it."

"Tsk. Just answer the question."

"As separate potions or combined into one? You want them to fall for you at the same time, or..."

"At the same time."

The witch inhaled deeply and looked towards the ceiling, "It'd cost twice as more."

"No discount?"

"Same. Ten percent."

"Lend me your calculator," Little Red asked. She thought it would be nice to let the wolf have some competition and experience some jealously. She had roll-out a clever scheme somehow. The total came up to be 4,500 after discount, but instead she proposed: "How about three wolves for 4,000?"

"Woah. Little Red... Three? At the same time? Now, now, don't be hasty..."

"Tsk. I'm not being hasty. How about it?"

"Okay. Okay. I'm not one to judge," the witch took over the calculator and pretended to do some maths. "Nope, it'd have to be at least 4,500. It's complicated now that it's 3 wolves. And at the same time! I might get found out. 4,500 is already the discounted price."

"Fine, whatever then," Little Red started to fill out the form, "I have no specific preference which 2 other wolves it should be, but just make sure they are handsome, eligible, and preferably sought after. Can I trust you to do that for me?"

"Do you like them old or young? Big or small sized?"

"As long as they're handsome, then it's fine. At least, they should be as good looking as the first one. Here's his picture," Little Red showed the picture of the wolf on her phone to the witch, who agreed that he was quite a handsome wolf.

As she was making her payment, Little Red was plotting a cheesy, Korean-drama-style, love story between the three wolves and her. Little did she know that the witch's potion would make them want to have sex with her so much that they would eventually rape her, because that was just what all love potions were meant for - to let the other party want to make love to the potion consumer. In her case, the other parties would come after her. Lesser did she know that the potion was really going to be made of three little pieces of shit from the three wolves.

And perhaps some chocolate syrup. The witch thought. And some Ribena. To musk the taste. And tequila. To musk the smell. And to give it the 'kick'. Little Red would probably think that potions should have a kick...

Going around to collect and melt the three pieces of shit would be horrid, but 4,500 is good money. The witch briefly wondered if Little Red, being so open-minded, would make a good apprentice (she was thinking of hiring one), but nah, Little Red was probably too romantic to get anything done properly. The witch made a mental note to save any extra ingredients, since Little Red seemed like the type to come back for seconds.

You've called?

You've called?

I was away
From my phone,
By the time I reached it,
You had hung up.

I did not return your call.

Since it's about time anyway,
That I should pretend that
It's about time
To have had deleted your number away.

So for the record,
I don't know
You've called that day.

Actually on that day,
I was in quite a disarray -
My boss spoke to me in a bad way,
I was not feeling well
And hearing from you...
Hearing you say... anything...
Might have made me give away

How I would have needed a while
to get over that you have finally called,
Especially since
It's been a while since
I've gone.

Of a Lion and a Siren (Part I)

Once a upon a time, in a land ruled by lions and lionesses, there was a prince. His parents wanted to give him a simple name, as they believed that a common name would help make their child easier to raise - like a commoner's child, so he was named Simba.

Simba had a spoilt childhood, with mothers who spoilt him, and a chauvinistic father, who believed in giving him a Confucian upbringing. He was rather stout and cumbersome as a cub, but grew up with a strong manly chest (did a lot of push ups in his teen) and a proud brownish-golden mane. Simba was so handsome that the flies, that typically hung around lion's snouts to feed on the leftovers from their mouths not wiped clean after every meal, did not dare to go near his unclean snout, for fear of being poisoned by his majestic, royal beauty.

One warm evening, Simba decided to take a stroll by a river he seldom visited. It was then when he heard an attractive song of a low seductive growling that he had never before heard of. Like that of a siren, the song drew Simba to followed it to the source - at a river bend, there was a group of giant arapaima fish - all almost as long as himself or longer still - surrounding a female arapaima, who glowed with a pearly, green-and-reddish gleam in the moonlight, who was singing the seductive song. The group of arapaimas were so enchanted with the performance that they did not notice Simba's approach.

Simba had heard of other lions speaking of the giant arapaimas living in the river, but had seldom seen them for himself, let alone to witness such a large gathering of these giant fishes. Seeing the way, their gigantic bodies float near the surface with the ebbing water calmed Simba, and the scene accompanied the soothing song of the female arapaima well. The more he listened to the song, the more he was convinced that it was the most beautiful music in his father's kingdom.

Simba crouched down and remained silent, not wanting to disrupt the performance; only when the song was complete, he let out a gentle roar of appreciation for the mystical arapaima's song.

Startled, the gathered arapaimas submerged and scattered quickly, except for the singer, however, who was scared stiff and simply remained where she was.

Simba got up and apologise for disrupting the party; at the same time, when his eyes met o those of the singing arapaima, he realised he was glad to have the time alone.

"Lord Simba," the arapaima said humbly, paying her respects.

"Good evening, fish. I was intending to introduce myself, but I suppose you already know who I am," said Simba with a smile, turning on his charm.

"That is but of course, you are our Lord. Your parents' picture hangs in our classrooms and school hall where we recite the national pledge in school every Monday," said the arapaima in a flurry before stopping with embarrassment by her seeming incoherence. "I mean... and you look like your father."

"Relax. Don't worry. I'm not uptight like him. Please introduce yourself?" urged Simba. He approached the water.

"I am Ariel, Daughter of Arapaima III of the Eastern River," she said as she swam backwards away from him.

"Show me your face, come closer to the bank."

"Are you intending to eat me, Sire?" Ariel said, apprehensively.

Simba laughed at her innocence before reassuring her that he was not, and he did not like to eat bony fish.

Ariel hesitated and realised that she should not defy the will of the prince. She propelled herself towards him, and swam at a shallower part of the river, where her shimmering scales caught more of the moonlight, and revealed a tiny lunar rainbow on almost every scale.

This was the moment when Simba fell in love with Ariel.

"I like your song, Ariel. Would you sing for me every night?" Not wishing to be rejected, he added, "I command it?"

"If you so wish, my lord, it would be my pleasure. But wouldn't you be bored with the same song? I would be bored singing it every night. How about I teach the song to your royal performers and perhaps they could sing it to you in the comforts of your palace."

"Excuse me," blushed Simba, "I meant, I like your singing, Ariel. You could sing any song you wish."

This made Ariel blushed too.

Simba returned to the river bend every night to the river to listen to Ariel sing. Sometimes she sang lively songs that were typically sang to araipaman children to teach them some lessons about being araipama; sometimes she sang slow songs, telling the stories to the ancestors. Simba listened with relish as the songs taught Simba much about Ariel's life.

He learned the different colours on her scales that changed with the phase of the moon. By looking at the scales, he learnt to tell which day of the month it was. Sometimes, he was so enchanted by Ariel that he would approach the river, and stand in the river, so much as being knee deep in the water. Whenever he wet his mane, he would rather regret it as he would have to comb his hair back, and that would worry him about looking like an ah-beng.

Over time, Ariel too began to take a liking to Simba and saw past his attempts to act cool and was moved by his pathetic and sincere attempts to impress her by bringing her rare game meat - like lamb chops and hot dogs. She was more practical, knowing that they would never be able to be together. Slowly, she began to sing love songs about star-crossed lovers or unrequited relationships. Simba, delighted to know that his love was finally being reciprocated by Ariel, yet at the same time, he was sad that she would keep reminding him of how they would not be together.

想你18

昨晚， 我梦见你了。
梦里， 我哭了。
醒来， 我不见到你。
想你。 我笑了。

There is no if

When we were at the crossroads two traffic junctions away from your house, I thought of how there must be a million quotes on crossroads, but that I couldn't think of any that touched me. Then when you said that you loved me, I heard from somewhere, or nowhere, the Cure's "There is no if", like it was playing loudly on a stereo in a car driving by.

I thought hard about that - what was the matter with me, and if I still believed in love - I worried myself for a while.

But I thought of her.

She leapt in from the open window in the middle of that sleepless night. Perhaps, she had descended from the moon. The moon was not yet full. Perhaps she was why the moon was not yet full. She looked like she was made of ivory. She looked like she was made of ivory so much that it was impossible that she was made of ivory. I watched her slowly dance around my bed - it was some ballet - it looked like ballet - and she twirled around my bed. It was difficult to see someone so rigid and impossible dance like a ribbon. I was worried if she fell, she would break herself, or crack, or disappear.

When dawn came, she became sunlight.

*

How could I have told you? Would you believe me if I told you that I'm in love with a girl that I must have been delusional to have met? I suppose I am in love with her.

Then I still believe in love - that is how I will comfort myself.

But what will I tell you?

想你17

可能我想你的心情 就好像
公海马 在生小海马的时候 想着母海马的心情。

我可以承担着 自己生活在茫茫大海中的孤独。
我愿意怀着 与一般母动物生育不一样的寂寞。
但就算是有了 多么非凡的成就
我仍然还是想着你。

The hands of a watch

There was a minute hand of a watch who was in love with the hour hand. It was a one sided love affair because the hour hand never could see the minute hand.

The minute hand chased the hour hand. It was happy for a minute of every hour, when they were together, and the minute hand would imagine leaning forward against the hour hand leaning backwards against the minute hand. Then, that minute would pass, and the minute hand would be forlorn again.

One day, the time on the watch might stop. When it does, would love be requited? Or having had the mere experience of any kind of love would be enough?

They were just hands of a watch.

Kusudama Fairy

She was on her way to work on her birthday when an old man, who reminded her of a character she came across in a book, asked her for directions, which she gave. At work, she ate potato chips in celebration of her birthday. She was allergic to potato chips, and would develop sore throat overnight whenever she ate them, so she did not eat them often. The potato chips were unimportant, as was the old man, as was the book she read. They were just the things about her birthday that she thought were out of the ordinary. After work, she met up with her friends to celebrate, but she met her friends often and often ate what they ordered that night.

She summarised the past year in her head on the way home and fell asleep in the taxi cab. In her sleep, she dreamt of being a fairy from somewhere in Japan and who was in love with a samurai, who wore a mask, and she could not see how he looked like. She was wearing an elaborate kimono, which she felt was surprising light. She checked the sleeves and found that she was carrying a kusudama. This kusudama, which is something like a ball of origami flowers, was similar to the ones that she often made while she was awake. This recognition made her aware of her lucid dreaming, which excited her so much that she woke up before she remembered if the love was requited and what the kusudama was for.

She went back to her apartment feeling a little groggy from the drinks she had and the dream she half dreamt. She should have tried to fly. She had read somewhere that one can fly in lucid dreams. Unthinkingly, she went into her room and reached for a plum blossom kusudama that she completed last night and meant it for a gift to a friend. It was blue and green and yellow. The one in the dream was white in colour.

Then lightning struck, and it startled her, and she accidentally dropped the kusudama, and it exploded silently into one thousand little flowers. She did not notice the loud thunder that followed and didn't know what to do, or if she was dreaming, or if she was awake. She was suddenly unsure if she was just holding the kusudama at all, or she came home with a handful of little flowers and thrown it on the ground.

She squatted down and felt the flowers and verified that they were real. She felt a little ditsy and went to get the broom. If anyone was to wake up to see this, she'd say she came home and dropped the flowers which were a birthday gift. She wondered if she should try to throw another kusudama on the ground to see if it happens again. If so, she should do it first and sweep the floor after. But it would also be good to clean up the floor first, go take a shower to sober up, then, try to smash another kusudama to properly observe what happens.

As she swept, she felt that the flowers were hardly moving. Then she noticed that the broom was growing shorter. The flowers were cutting away the broom. They were not glass, but they could cut at the brooms. They did not cut her, but she needed to make new plans. So she sat down on the bed to think.

Then, she remembered what the kusudamas in the dream was for, it was for self protection, and it was a lucky charm that she made for the samarai - a gift of origami love. He was to use them by throwing them at his enemies to elegantly cut them into pieces. She could not remember if the love was requited. But the flowers were to remind him of her in the battle field, and that he must survive to return to her.

She wondered if the kusudamas not meant as gifts would work. And if it was the first time she dropped a kusudama or why this had never happened if she dropped it the last time. She wondered if it happened only because it was her birthday, and if not, she should warn her friends who had previously received such a gift from her. No, the flowers would not hurt them. The kusudamas were meant for them, and they would be protected. Would it hurt their loved ones?

She wondered about how to clean up the flowers on the ground besides having to pick them up by hand. She wondered if she should try dropping another kusudama or just vow never to make anymore and forget that this entire episode ever happened. She could just go to sleep and see what happens when she wakes up tomorrow. Or when she thinks she wakes up tomorrow. She remembers the potato chips because she felt her throat slowly growing sore. If she had not known it, she could not have thought that she was ever a kusudama fairy before.

(For Lay Suan and her happy birthday. )
(sneak.)

Freddy and Francesca

Once upon a time, there was a world of frogs and praying mantises, and they were at odds with each other.

Although they were small and did not wear clothes, they were not quite like the frogs and praying mantises that we know, because they sometimes walked upright and had sharp teeth and retractable claws. Their teeth were as sharp as the teeth of the venus fly trap, and were as tough as our nails. When they had nothing to do, they'll pick fights with each other.

Frogs will go and eat the young praying mantises, and the praying mantises will go and eat young frogs. Both of them usually eat other things, but they had nothing to do, so they go and eat each other to pick fights.

They did not fight with guns and nuclear bombs for they were too busy fighting with each other to invent new ways to fight. There were no police, no law, nobody to decide who was right and who was wrong, so that's how they lived everyday.

Freddy was a praying mantis in this world. He had killed off two females whom he mated with because they tried to eat him after have sex. He wanted to be a lover, not a hater, but what else was there to do? It was a matter of life and death. So, he'd pick on the frogs. Before he killed the younglings of frogs he caught, he'll rape them. The anatomy of how it worked is interesting, but beyond me to describe.

He did not want to kill the froglings at first, but he thought that if the frogling spilled about the incident, shit would hit the fan and coat it like chocolate coating a strawberry in a chocolate fondue. He thought about starting a "love, not war" campaign, but he was not charismatic or passionate about the idea enough.

One day, he caught this frog, whose name was Francesca, who was a bright and wanton, for a little girl. So, before Freddy did what he was about to do, she figured out what was going to happen. Instead of being raped and not enjoying herself, she thought that she'd act like a willing party. She proposed the idea, and asked "what is your name, mantis?"

Freddy is not as bright. He couldn't think of the consequences before he replied, "My name is Freddy, and you are a very beautiful frog."

"Freddy is a very froggish name. Did you know that?"

"No."

"In fact, I had two lovers and a brother who have the same name as you. Why do you love frogs?"

"I don't love frogs."

"Then why are you threatening to do this? Sex is an act of lOvE~." She tried to act sultry to seduce him.

"Is that what you think? For praying mantises, sex is generally regarded as an act of violence."

"That is so sad..." Francesca was in the age to like to say generic emphatic things. She took a while to wonder about how sex could be violent. "Are you going to kill me after this?"

"Yes. And then I will eat you."

"I wonder if there are any frogs named Freddy who are doing the same thing to your sister."

"What is your name?"

"Francesca."

"I have no sisters named Francesca." With that, Freddy concluded the conversation and completed the intercourse, and ate her up.

After Francesca, he did not hunt frogs ever again. He was afraid that he would be unable to help himself from asking for the next frog's name, and that Francesca could be a common name for frogs, and that he would find another Francesca who would make him realise that he loved the Francesca he ate, and that he was really a hater, not a lover. Then he would hate himself for being a farce and be utterly miserable.

He decided that if he needed to ever kill himself, he'd go mate with a beautiful but vicious praying mantis and offer his everything to her. It would be his final act of prostration to savage his self-image and the ultimate thing he could do to redeem himself.

29/08/03

On a bus, again,
Traveling silently.
Familiar scent
Ambles tauntingly.

There was a time before this,
When I was heading this way,
He put my hand in his
And pretended to fall asleep.

Him

It's been like what, about three weeks? I've been dreaming about him almost every day, if not, every other.

Sometimes I dream that I wake up from my sleep and I will think that I'm not dreaming and he is not in my dreams. It freaked me out for a while. Once, I dreamt of people I don't like and I was comforted to know that he was near. Another time, I saw him as an elephant, that was one of my favourite dreams of him from all that I can remember. Last night, as most nights, I saw him as himself, and he spoke to me about something important, but I only remember him saying, “This is awkward, ain't it...” It was so distinct that I woke up a little.

My dreams are probably a function of my imagination and desperation for something exciting and novel to happen. Dreaming of somebody for consecutive three weeks is quite novel to me. It is almost as if I can control, dictate what or whom I want to dream about. But the thing is, I didn't control or dictate dreaming of him. I didn't even want to dream of him. I don't know where he came from, seriously. I was quite troubled at first. Now I'm used to it. Somewhat.

Of course it had crossed my mind if it's a matter of the paranormal. It could be. He may be somebody who want me to do something for him, that's why he's come to my dreams.

Or it could simply be because he likes my company. You know, like how I like his company. I kinda like his company. Meeting him in my sleep... man of my dreams?

That is so corny.

I don't think I will meet his equivalent in real life. What are the chances of a man being an elephant? Or an elephant being a man? My hopes will be dashed.

I wonder how complicated would it be? If I were to like him? As in, in a romantic way. He is pretty likable. Not particularly dashing in looks, but there's something just clicks between us. If I were to love him? If there is the possibility that I will dream of him almost everyday, or every other, for the rest of my life, then I... you know. As awkward as it will be... of course, not that the relationship needs to last forever, but I suppose I require that possibility?

Of course, I'm just letting my imagination go crazy here. Anyway, it's not that I can really dictate what happens in my dreams, maybe he'll be scared off by what I'm thinking about here, and never appear in my dreams again. Maybe he's already engaged. I'd never know, really. Or that such things cannot ever happen. I should just concentrate my hopes on dreaming of him again tonight, if not tomorrow.

I need to change my life drastically. If this doesn't work out.

想你 16

怎么从来再也没有在街上碰过你?
是不是因为我们连那一点缘份都没有了吗?

还是因为你见到我就躲了起来?
你应该是没有躲我的理由吧?

可能觉得 和我打招呼 很麻烦...

其实我也觉得 和你打招呼 是很麻烦...

就这样吧.
希望你还好. 希望你过得快乐.

想你 15

我写不出 想你的心情
是因为我不想你了吗?

Bicycle

You may not remember when this picture was taken but it was taken nevertheless.

You were drinking coffee.
I was entertaining myself with the camera.

May I always think of you when I look at this picture of a bicycle and the shadow it cast against the ground.

Star Light

On the way, she talks to him quietly, so that it will not disturb him from ignoring her. She wonders briefly to herself on what he was thinking about. They say men are always thinking of other women...

Before she gets off, she says goodnight and asks him to call later tonight, "to tell me you got home safe, okay?"

As she stands alone, she looks up to find a star to wish upon the wish she wished tonight.

The Girl from Ipanema?

She looked tall and tan and young and lovely. I admired her at the traffic crossing through the dusty window panes of my car.

Her light green satin dress was dancing with the gentle throbbing of her long brown hair that had big curls at the ends; and, her plumpy breasts were bobbing.

Then, a gentle breeze started blowing, distracting the rhythm of her jaunty walking. It was wrapping her dress to her body more tightly... so I noticed her hips... her crotch was showing... but it was not so womanly, something was jutting... She had a cock!

Fit

She learnt from some website mag to use mink oil on her mothers' purses to make them as good as vintage. So, in a fit of independence and self-actualisation, she triumphantly found some fine animal fat and a piece of left over craft felt and began to rub her bags.

“Wow. The leather really feel so nice and smooth with this magic mink oil, it's so cool! I...”

And before she finished her thought, with a sudden poof, a genie popped out of the classic Chanel clutch she was rubbing and said formidably,

“I am the genie of the Chanel bag... I will grant you one wish....You have only one wish because you're a size six! If you were a size four, I'd grant you maybe, three wishes.” This was not true, the genie always granted one wish to anyone, even size fours; he just liked to make people feel bad about their bodies so that they would wish to be slimmer, and he could quickly grant that well-rehearsed charm to go back to whatever, or whoever, he was doing.

“Whoever the fuck you are, you are just a bitch to me,” said the girl, unfazed, as she flashed the genie a middle finger which was glossy with mink oil,

“Now what was I thinking... I had wanted to put it on my blog,” she whined as she rolled her eyes at the genie before she announced her recollections self-righteously, “oh yeah, I was just thinking before I was rudely interrupted... that I wish someone would rub mink oil all over my dead body when my skin's all dried and wrinkly.”

The Romeo and Juliet

Once upon a time, there lived a couple of lovers quite like Romeo and Juliet. Their families were at odds with one another, and they were, well, both filial and cowardly such that they did not want to go against the wishes of their family and date each other, or hold each other’s hands. They communicated through letters, and the post system, and sometimes, via telephone. Boring stuff.

Love.

One moony night, as the owls hoot, they thought of each other, and both wished aloud to be birds simultaneously so that they could be together (so much for filial piety). The owls heard and told a fairy with the powers of such things and they were turned into birds.

Immediately, they flew off to be together, but alas!
When they finally learned how to perch, they realized that as birds they could not speak, but could only chirp.
They could not hold hands, or hug, or kiss, or fuck!

Well, actually, they fucked, but it was quick and unsatisfying. So, they hung their heads in sorrow and wept and sang a song in a bird language that meant,

“We should have waited to be together after our fathers and mothers were dead! Or at least have them changed into birds instead!”

They lived, regretfully ever after.

All the flowers that you planted...

Holding onto that thing on the train that everybody holds on to with both hands in front of me, I rest my head on myself, listening to my mp3 player, to the song you had on repeat in your car when you had just broke up. The song that you would drive to, and keep quiet to, and not listen to the things I was rattling on about to. Were you healing your broken heart?

Was this how she made you feel?

Yesterday night, over the phone, you asked me not to break your heart. I'm not the best person you could trust your heart with.

Does the wind in the tunnel rushes by the train, or does the train pushes itself against the wind? I can barely hear the whining of the song if I pay attention to the howling tunnel. Will it ever tire? I take a deep breath. I feel out of breath. I feel like that pretty often nowadays. I sigh.

Shillings in my pocket. I have a box at home that I will put shillings from my pocket into. I know exactly where it is. I can imagine the sound of the coins as they are put inside in the way I will put them inside. And the way the light will flicker when I turn it on the way I will turn it on. I can imagine exactly how the way the light will twitch as the beep of my computer will sound exactly a moment after when I switch my computer on with my toe. I can imagine the smell of my room. It smells like wet laundry on the line on rainy evenings like these. The dusky sky has a corner of pink.

Most of what's left of the day looks grey. Pale, milky, bluish grey. I remember you asking me what's the difference between bluish grey and greyish blue. I explained it to you in terms of adjectives and nouns. Now that I think about it, I don't know if I'm correct about what I thought any more. I'll be sure to feel even more estranged from it if I give it any more thought.

There are others queuing in the line for the bus. I wonder if they were doing their Christmas shopping. She smiles with delight. Her teeth are very straight. That helps make her smile quite perfect. She could be in an advertisement. The girls on my right are restless, they keep looking in the direction of the bus's way. They are young.

I look at my feet. I cannot separate my index and middle toes. On both feet. It frustrates me that I cannot will my toes, but it does not surprise me. If you were here I would amuse you by making up another story on my toes.

The evening breeze makes the ends of the branches of the tree in front of me move a little. It is comforting to watch it. It is hypnotic, probably. I cannot see the green of the tree against the blurry sky. It is made of shadows now, for all I care.

I shall sit by the aisle. A seat that is near the alighting door. I don't want to squeeze pass too many people to get out. Sometimes it is okay. But not today. I take out my book to write. I tried to write about the tree being made of shadows. But it doesn't flow. I can only remember the image of the leaves swaying. Little 3 cm pinnate leaves. Made of shadows. I lose my train of thoughts. Is that my hand-phone vibrating in my bag? Should I check? Can I ignore it? I really don't feel like picking up a phone call from my mother now. Why do I feel like I have a hang over? I didn't drink anything last night...right?

You had called to ask me if I wanted to meet up for dinner. What would life be like if we didn't have cell phones? What would we be like?

I put the heartbreak song on again. I don't know why I want to listen to it. It makes me feel uneasy. There is a 10 seconds pause before the fella starts singing on the track.

Is it raining again? Doesn't look like it. But why are the wipers on? I shouldn't have worn this today. I wouldn't have, I suppose, if I had known it was going to rain.

The fluorescent lights at the bus stop comes on. The advertisement board is such an ugly lantern. But I feel welcomed. I have always liked to step off the bus. Maybe it's the way it's a big step and a little stretch. Maybe it's a little like the way I like to step off a boat that just docked. A delivery lorry speeds by. There are no cars coming my way. I cross the road despite the red man. I realise that I didn't notice the bus leaving. I don't want to go home. I don't know why I am still walking.

Did you know that I wish to die before I turn sixty-five? I don't think my teeth would last me that long.

(sneak)