the four right chords can make me cry

There was something poetic in the pathos of the trickle of water; glinting and gurgling in the moonlit drain. Ah, sewage and modern living.

The neighbourhood was so still. Cars, immovable and obdurate along their pavements, not sleeping but static, part of the landscape since time immemorial. Leached of the sharp saturation of the day, indistinct and grey forms merged into the dark. Every thing loses its boundaries at 2am.

In contrast (contrast), I considered the perfect white marble that has journeyed far to see me. Every minute detail thrown into sharp relief. Harsh lights and nakedness, the scrutiny. Tomorrow, I resolved, we would meet.

I've spent a lot of time alone this week, explaining the particularly assertive inner life spilling into this post today. I only realise how quiet it has been at 4:30am, because the birds start calling. The more still the environment, the more chaotic my internal milieu.

In not so many words, this post is about stillness. And solitude.

Actually no lah, no need so chim.

Basically, my tuition kids canceled on me at the last minute and I decided to go to the museum instead only to realise that I have no friends whom I feel I can impose my self on at this last minute and drag into the museum.

But wasn't the long version nicer?

posted by beckyboo @ 2:56 AM