tell me more

yusuke nakamura

see you space cowboy

she was raised by wolves
in the warmth of their fur
surrounded by fangs
she knew she was secure

---

I've been clean for a few years now. I used to work at a reputable company. Reputable. The word felt like a noose around my neck. So I went to the frontier, but it wasn't enough to conquer it. I wanted to be part of it. This rage, could it really be wrong? This tempest, this storm in my veins. So when the next solar flare made its magnificent arc, slicing through the darkness, reaching across the abyss, I, Romulus, went out to meet it.

---

all these violinists in sailor outfits; it has to mean something
right?

---

We had a therapist at my old school, except she wasn't called a therapist. She was called the school counselor, but it was basically the same thing. Early on during my final year at college, a kid in the year below jumped from the balcony of his 21st floor apartment. I didn't know him personally, but from what I heard he was a quiet kid. Didn't really mix much with others. A week later the school counselor appeared. Some of us speculated that she'd only been summoned for PR reasons, but by the end of the week, they had carved out a small office on the top floor for her, which she settled into almost instantly, it seemed - sitting there at her desk beside a couple of well-placed ferns - as if she'd been there her whole life. I interviewed her once for the school magazine, but never saw her again after that.

The only other therapist I've known was a family friend. He studied in Birmingham with my dad and trained with him at the same hospital for a while. When I first went over to the UK, he and his wife met me at the airport and helped ferry my stuff up north in their car to where my university was. Since then, it's become something of a routine to stop by their house on the way to the airport, sometimes spending a couple of nights in the guest room before leaving to catch my flight. Occasionally, they'd take me to their friends' houses for dinner and drive me to the airport if they happened to be free. Of the myriad talents that I possess, getting along with my parents' friends is not one of them. Adults have always been something of a stumbling block to me. Not that I am some sort of prodigy at connecting with human beings my own age, but I feel there has always been something hindering my interactions with older people especially. Any sort of discourse between myself and their species is invariably shallow and superficial. To go any deeper than that would be to risk awkwardness and alienation, so we don't. But lately I've found a few exceptions to this rule, perhaps because I am getting older, or perhaps because I am discovering that this rule only exists in my head, but whatever the reason, I find myself becoming increasingly comfortable in the company of certain adults - in particular, my paternal uncle and my dad's therapist friend. Perhaps it's because we finally have something real in common. Amazing how tragedy can tear people apart while pulling people together. But back to my dad's therapist friend - he was a quiet, unassuming man. He didn't like to waste words and possessed a quick wit. Reserved, he didn't try too hard make conversation but wasn't the type to shrink from it either. He would refrain from making baseless statements and state his opinions without bias or bigotry. He understood the virtues of silence and space, and did not condone the deplorable practice of asking questions simply to chase the silence away. Everything about him suggested a man deeply grounded in common sense. I could see why my dad would've been friends with him.

Once, we were both having a late lunch at the airport. His wife was out of town, babysitting their grandson while their daughter and son-in-law worked. While we were sat there munching away quietly, something like a wave of loneliness or curiosity came over me and I felt the urge to ask him what my dad was like in university and during their time as colleagues at the same hospital - to share and compare the shapes of his absence; to speak freely of our respective bereavements; to drink in the sweet sorrow of missing the same person; but then I thought about how uncomfortable I'd be if he were to suddenly start soliciting that sort of information from me. In the end, I decided not to ask him and we just continued eating our burgers in relative silence, but it wasn't a hollow, insecure kind of silence - it was dense and organic - as if you could rest your hand on its body and feel it breathe. Only years later would I fully come to understand, that the spaces between us were what tied us together, that we were connected by intangibles and had shared the same star - swallowed up by a void that had swallowed up all of our words along with it, and that our gravity now belonged to a black hole instead - our wordless worlds now sharing the tacit weight of things unsaid.

vacance

we write one thing and then tell the world something else

forget it

why fencers make the worst lovers

Clad in their immaculate attire, flaunting a graceful lunge, or sweeping down the piste like a freight train on fire, blade glistening wildly in the air - it's easy to be charmed by the sense of romance and adventure that surrounds the sport of fencing, but don't be fooled; the fencer is not someone you want to spend the rest of your life with.

The Foilist is known for being sharp, agile and always ready with a quick response. Most people start out as foilists, though some are naturally better at being epeeists or sabreurs and eventually gravitate toward becoming one or both of these. The foilist lives on an ardent rhythm of reciprocity, so if you made the foilist breakfast in bed this morning, you can expect the foilist to be cooking up plans for a candlelit dinner tomorrow night. However, if you don't share this sense of give-and-take, the foilist may get upset and refuse to make any more advances. The foilist also subscribes to a rigid and complex set of rules and may possess a very legalistic definition of justice and fair play, at times fighting tooth and nail to clarify some petty point of contention 'as a matter of principle', but only when it is in the foilist's manifest interest to do so.

The Epeeist is arguably the most liberal of the three. Armed with an 'anything goes' attitude, you may find yourself frequently surprised by the repertoire of concealed feats lurking up the epeeist's sleeves. Numerous encounters with other epeeists have honed the epeeist into an expert at understanding distance. The epeeist may feel uncomfortable if the epeeist feels his/her personal space is being encroached upon and will often retreat in response. Bearing in mind that most of the time that an epeeist spends with another person involves two sword lengths worth of distance between them, the term 'personal space' may encompass a more expansive vicinity than some might expect. That being said, the epeeist is not intimidated by the prospect of getting up close and personal, often initiating intimate contact when the situation calls for it. However, as swiftly as the epeeist comes, the epeeist can go. The epeeist is a cautious creature, preferring to spend hours testing the waters before any possibility of a plunge. Prone to bouts of deliberation, the epeeist likes to consider all possible contingencies before deciding to commit, rarely hazarding an engagement without some sort of exit strategy prepared.

The Sabreur is the often considered the most flamboyant and graceless of the three. It's no big secret that the sabreur considers himself/herself a big deal, although the rationale behind this assertion continues to elude both foilist and epeeist alike. When two sabreurs meet, the results tend to be rather hit-and-miss. To an observer it would appear that the sabreur operates on a stream of continuous impulses, throwing the entirety of his/her being into whatever spontaneous endeavour the sabreur has, in that instant, settled upon. To be sure, forethought and consistency are not the sabreur's strong suits. The passion and vehement energy that the sabreur boasts may seem exciting at first, but the sabreur's tendency to rush into things blindly can get rather tiring for all those involved. Like the foilist, the sabreur's actions are supposedly governed by a set of rules, but it seems that the sabreur is only made aware of these when they are broken and pointed out explicitly, to which the sabreur will perhaps nod and grunt a brusque apology, but even then any adjustment is likely to be short-lived.

If I could advise you, I would tell you to avoid fencers altogether. Just stay the heck away from them. Instead, try meeting someone who plays frisbee or hockey - sports that don't exclusively cater to people with issues - sports that don't bolster a person's insecurities and glorify their faults with each victory. Of all the creatures here on God's green earth, the fencer is undoubtedly the worst. I hereby end this solemn admonition with a tally of the most heinous character flaws that likely afflict each and every miscreant what holds a blade.
The fencer:
1. inherently lacks the propensity for teamwork and harbours a sadistic hatred of mankind (why else would someone consider the act of injuring a fellow human being fun?)
2. compulsively tries to predict what you'll do and stay two steps ahead
3. has a habit of keeping score and
4. when confronted, is notorious for avoiding the point.
Happy valentines day.

doors

the old house, exactly the same
but somehow colder than before
the uncles and aunties had left late
and you spent the night in your old bed
but you didn't sleep, you just stared
wide awake
afternoon came, overcast
listless leaves rattled on by
never knew you'd be
the last one to lock the door

parents gone, moving on
you take ten steps and stop
to look back, gazing
down the empty alleyway
he thunders towards you
yelling at you to get back in the house 
but you just stare
until his image runs out of memory
and dissipates into air
a long, lingering glance
waiting for something or someone
for absolution or an apology
but it's no use knocking
there's no one home anymore

sovereign bodies

sometimes I wonder if my body really listens to me, or if it leads its own autonomous, surreptitious existence.

---

doc, there's something wrong in my brain
it should've stopped growing, but it's growing again

---

laughing away our numbered days with laboured breath
half of us are starving while the other half eats itself to death
eating too much is now a disease; a desire to drown ourselves
manifested in our bones, incarnate in our blood
we must again grow wild, reclaim our sweat and tears
and learn to tame our recreant flesh

I told the witch doctor I was in love with you

- The fever is wearing off. I need you to to rekindle it for me.
- No, you must let it settle or else it will consume you, but the burning will not be in vain. Keep alive that which has blossomed in its flame. Watch the embers as they slowly simmer that someday you may recall its distant glimmer. Keep hold of a single spark and hide it deep within your heart, to use in your most desperate hour, to thwart the cold and dispel the dark 

---

I have a fondness for long bus rides. Most of my memories involving them arouse a sense of camaraderie and adventure. I remember pointless high school field trips, stopping at rest stops, buying dirty food and singing songs to pass the time. I remember camping trips involving some pretty lengthy transit times, being readily trapped in close proximity with another person for hours, strapped in with nothing to do but think and talk. I remember sharing a pair of earphones that fell out every five minutes, listening to an mp3 player with only ten fall out boy songs playing on repeat, a perpetual cycle lulling us to sleep. I remember watching scenery speed past with the sun quietly dipping below the horizon and tired friends squeezed into rows, sinking into sleep. I remember waking in a haze, gradually rousing to conversation within a rowdy rabble, our marketplace chatter soon escalating to fill the entire bus. I remember inside jokes, surreptitiously employed, silly things and knowing smirks, such precious times.

immortal roach / good detective

remember when I used to have insightful and funny things to say

those were the days

---

nah
she's far too composed
to be drowning

---

it's just selfish to leave a good song unfinished

i hope my stories never become magazine titles

I think I may have inherited, cumulatively, my parents' tempers

---

1. take two people with zero patience
2. place them both in a kitchen
3. put one in charge of the other

kings without their crowns / the sound of regret

fallen frost cakes the uneven asphalt; diamond dust, freckles and flakes in their erratic array, the smiling cracks and craters in gray, powder and pebbles that belong to the coast, yet frozen in white; forgotten fossils - a petrified shore

---

- are you guys students?
- haha, is it that obvious?
- nah, i just assumed cause you guys looked young     and smart
[she laughs]     
- where are you from?
-   i'm from malaysia. where're you from?
- ahh.  hong kong, but my dad's malaysian so i recognise the accent
-    ahh.    is it that obvious

the coldest month

our desire for beauty is now so easily fulfilled
but perhaps gold may lose its luster if all enjoy its gild