putrid.
you twist and turn
-my love
into a mimicry of love.

more than putrid it is.

the tone of your voice on the phone which belies all the agenda you harbour beneath you, it's managed to taint every good memory that i've had of you.

you've managed to taint every good memory i've had of you. no mean feat.

the lights spun around me once more - i wasn't quite in the city of bright lights like i'd thought of, many times over. this time, it was a different time, another place.
or perhaps it was that i'd bought murakami's wind up bird chronicle and read it on the way back to singapore once more, even though i'd read it two years ago. each read is different. each read infuses different perceptions that come to mind in reading, splashing the words with different shards of memories.

i remember 2 years yon. i wrote these 2 years ago.

i'd be the worst person in the world to be a writer because i lack a vivid imagination. paint the sky a multitude of colours and i can spell how the sky was painted. insert a philosophical verse of crap or two, even, but hand me the paintbrush and i'll be dumbfounded.

reading about two halves of the self has made me go bonkers over someone having two selves. two detachable selves of oneself so that you can either exist in one self or another and forget totally about the other self. or perhaps not. we're but human, but human and being human, we're all fucking flawed to our annoyance.

i think of nails and tissue hidden under nails. sinew, limbs. i wore the pants for graduation. the shoes i still wear at times, pointy mules. i like to give. lines and squares. scissors to cut paper.