無常

機会の関して 時々少し貪欲な取得することができます. 私の愛が急いでいる. それぞれの終了を満たすために猛烈に突入 - 割り当てられた時間内にできるだけ多くの. 手の届くところにすべてをで浸して味わうために自分の欲望によって消費される; スプリンターの目は絶えず次の追求を探しています. 息をのむような物に - 息を吹き込むことができないものに- このように完全に自分自身を放棄, 最終的に排気されるだけ

そう簡単じゃない

can't get enough of this band

---

you know, a millennium from now, anomalous deviation may be mistaken for contemporary norm and common convention

mortal landscape / drama king

Fall
The leaves drop gingerly
from their towering trees, at the capricious
mercy of Autumn's breeze

Cold
It works its way to the bone
The universe steals our speed,
seizing it in her icy grip
only to give it away again

But by what means of discernment
should she choose whose to take?
Perhaps the swaddled babe, yowling and howling
in ardent wake, or the ancient patriarch,
whose breath is brimmed with age and aches?
Nay, neither pawn nor king might persuade their escape;
neither bastard nor saint; Yea, none can be saved
from Mors's mighty hand, smoothing out
the senseless creases of our fitful fates,
easily leveling the majestic ridges and valleys
of this mortal landscape

---

Did the wind weep, the day King David died
or did it flee from his side, eager to court
the next royal claimant to rise?
Unaffected by such quotidian succession,
seeing the seasons wax and wane -
the only changes occurring truly
are of their faces and their names
and possibly occupation -
ephemeral ornamentations on an eternal plane,
repeating themselves over and over again,
always the same productions played
on this finite spherical stage

water on the altar / wrong gods

So they shouted louder and slashed themselves with swords and spears, as was their custom, until their blood flowed. Midday passed, and they continued their frantic prophesying until the time for the evening sacrifice. But there was no response, no one answered, no one paid attention.
- 1 Kings 18:28-29

---

Praying to the wrong gods in the wrong ways for the wrong things

---

「 how did you get to be such a hateful creature?」

「 practice」

jelita

she was the single most odious girl I had ever met, but had she smiled at me just once, I would have married her in a heartbeat

---

I swear the like button has ruined everything

machismodo

clamouring to be heard
because we are invincible
desperate to be seen
as something we've never been

---

I feel I just want more   ...
more what?
I don't know       chaos?

---

why am I always wrong nowadays

---

why have we been conditioned to avoid boringness like the plague
is our company really so precious that we can only allow interesting people to surround us

rɑyɑ relɑpse

가슴에 밀접 매달 렸지
언제 이렇게 행복하게 됐니

---

I held my brand new, month old, baby nephew for the very first time today and, for a fraction of a second, I felt like an honest-to-God human being

---

행복을 좀 공유해주면 안되

unique equal / domestic virgin

I came across the door of a fantastic underwater vessel, governed by a contrivance of intricate and fanciful design encased in glass that caused gears, antique weighted things made of bronze and lead, to whir and visibly reconfigure for vivid blue liquid to fluctuate and flow at the touch of a lever, but when I tried to discern its mechanism by experiments of trial and error, it defied my reasoned expectations - the same action performed twice produced two distinctly different results. This is not logical, I thought. It is broken, you were too careless with your touch, my mind said. As soon as I became convinced of this invented explanation, it was proven.

---

sometimes I think I may be a misanthropist, but I sure hope not. I sure hope to hell I'm not.

---

it's pouring in shinjuku today
where are you?
a man grabs my hand hurry we don't have much time
wait, what's going on? 
haven't you realized? this is all a dream
wait, if this is all a dream then who are you?
nicholas cage
i stop and turn to look
his moustache stares back
and then i wake up

paperback writer

when you tend to have so many pairs of other people's shoes, it becomes quite easy to mix up which belongs to who

---

She sits at the tiny table just opposite the gentleman in the corner, his smart-striped tie folded neatly into the crisp collars of his white shirt. Decked out in a sultry-yet-understated one piece, the two would not have looked amiss attending some sort of film festival or fashion event together, her hand delicately draped across his arm as if it had always belonged there. But tonight finds them sitting at a quiet, dingy bar, on bar stools as polished as the bartender's manners. He pays no attention to his apparent dinner partner. His body is angled away obliquely and his eyes rest exclusively on the book in his hands. Her hands are folded politely in her lap as she gazes expectantly in his direction. He glances at her from the corners of his eyes. It's been ten minutes now, since she first sat down without a word, just watching him. It becomes increasingly clear that she doesn't know how to take a hint. Without looking up, he exaggerates a sigh. "Look, I'm very flattered, but I'm afraid you're wasting your time."
"Why is that?" Her voice is smooth, like lilac.
"I have no interest in chasing girls this evening."
"That's alright, I have no interest in running."
He peers over the top of his horn rimmed glasses for a moment then places his book on his lap. There's something unnatural about her otherwise attractive face.
"Who are you, exactly?"
She shrugs. "There are so many people inside me. I'm still trying to decide"
He contemplates returning to his book and abandoning this bizarre conversation, which at this point, can only get weirder but eventually decides against it. There's some mesmerizing quality about her words and her speech. He can't quite put his finger on it. "What do you do?"
"I guess you could say I'm a collector of sorts" she says in a nonchalant, sing-song sort of voice.
"What do you collect?"
"Feelings, that sort of thing"
A pause. "Feelings?"
"It's quite a long story, to be honest"
He nods and leans forward slightly. "I've got time"
She thinks for a moment, takes a sip of her cider and brushes her hair behind her ear, gently placing her glass back on the table. After a moment of pronounced silence, she begins to speak.

"Well, I was a writer initially. Sort of. After graduating, I worked at a tiny, unknown publishing firm as an office assistant, but in my spare time I would scribble short stories or poems in the back of my notebooks. A colleague happened to discover one of my poems one day and made quite a fuss about it. From then on, I became some sort of office phenomenon as 'the girl who could write'. For some reason, my colleagues became enamoured by my simple stories and turns of phrase. Their praises spurred me to consider taking up writing seriously, perhaps attend a few workshops or something like that. Looking back, their kind words may have simply been a form of polite flattery. My stories, to me at least, weren't anything special. But anyway, it became apparent that if I were to start writing for an audience, I would likely have to appeal to their emotions as well, which would be a difficult task, given the limited range and scope of experience at my disposal at the time. You see for as long as I can remember, people have described me as rational, detached or simply cold. Where the appropriate response would be to either cry or rejoice, I would just stand there, unaffected. I did not smile or frown very often. I myself had no idea that this was the case until my own sister pointed it out. It was not that I was unable to - I simply wasn't inclined to. I didn't see the point in performing the same muscle movements that came so naturally to others. Around the time I entered high school, I began to realise that this made the people around me uncomfortable. My classmates started avoiding me or called me a robot. As a result, I would spend hours alone in front of a mirror, practicing my expressions - perfecting them until they seemed genuine and ready to be employed at a moment's notice. I trained myself to react to cues in conversation and body language, but still my features always lacked authenticity. They were always a little stilted, mechanical, perfunctory. Anyway, I managed to master smiling and subtle concern, but I could never perfect my laugh. It always sounded hollow, forced. But at least I was no longer considered a social outcast and they had stopped calling me a robot. Since face to face interaction was such an exhausting ordeal for me, I became a very withdrawn, reserved individual. Although I managed to pretend to have emotions pretty successfully, I never discussed my fictional feelings with anyone, for fear of being found out. I suppose that may have been why my colleagues were so surprised at the fact that I wrote poems. But it was clear to me that these poems were not the sort that contained great meaning or got published and recited for generations to come. They were just a fanciful arrangement of words - idle strokes of the pen - pretty things to look at, but with no real gravity that would hold them together and secure their place in the mind. From then on, I made it a point to expose myself to various mediums - books, movies, music - to try and broaden my comprehension of human experience. Once I got started, however, I was hooked. I discovered that I had an innate talent for deconstructing emotions to their core and studying them. Like Beethoven at a piano or Archimedes before an equation, I could instantly discern where an emotion came from and what it was fueled by. It's difficult to describe but it was as if I could literally taste and grasp the phantom sensations. To this day I'm still not sure why this was so; perhaps it had something to do with my prior lack of experience with emotions. I was able to tell apart types of boredom and frustration that most people wouldn't even be able to recognize. I could catalogue the nuances and components that normally wouldn't register on a person's radar. I travelled far and wide to sample the world's happiness and sorrow. Did you know that there's a certain type of loneliness that can only be found in Japan? There's nothing else quite like it on the planet. As my collection grew so did my repertoire. By dissecting and analyzing the emotions, they became easier to emulate. I could be gregarious one moment, and then bashful the next. In the morning simple and good natured, and in the evening mysterious and melancholy. I soon found that the sort of emotions I had been searching for - the kind that can inspire novels and destroy people - they could only be encountered a certain way. You see, none of those secondhand sources could convey a greater variety or offer a more potent cocktail of emotions than those derived from intimate contact with another individual. It's a tedious process though, understanding another human being - and I don't just mean their words or actions. I mean going beyond knowing their name and occupation - those things are merely indicators of a larger truth - little bits of a bigger picture. I mean knowing what truly makes them tick - hopes, fears and dreams. And it's more than getting them to tell you how they feel. Quite often those under the influence of intense emotions, or particularly subtle ones, don't really know how they feel. All they can give is a vague outline - only shapes, no textures. To really put yourself in their place and feel the things they feel - there's no other way about it. it takes patience - and a delicate touch, like taming a wild animal. Humans almost never fully reveal their real selves to another. One must approach carefully and build up trust over numerous encounters before they feel comfortable enough to show themselves. But one false move and they'll retreat, fast as lightning, into their dense walls of hedge and undergrowth, never to be seen again except for fleeting glimpses of their tails darting between cover from time to time."
She finishes her glass and says nothing else, indicating the end of her story.
He studies her face. It's a good face - neutral. He wonders if this too, is all just an act.
"I imagine you must've met and gotten to know a lot of people"
She nods. "Thousands"
"Did you ever sleep with them?"
"Some of them, yes. Occasionally. Sex means so much less these days. There's nothing invested in the act anymore. Just another tedious social ritual."
"And then you left them"
A nod. "There was nothing more I could learn from them," she says candidly
"Can you tell what I'm feeling now?"
She stops and lowers her chin with her eyes fixed on him. Like a doctor listening to a stethoscope or a person trying to tune the radio into a specific frequency, a flicker of concentration crosses her absent expression. He feels a dull weariness grow over him, as if something inside is being slowly siphoned away.
"A sense of apprehension," she concludes.
"Anything more?"
"Well, I'd have to get closer to know that"
He considers her words for a second. "You make yourself sound like some sort of emotional vampire"
A mischievous smile plays out across her lips.
"Don't worry, I won't bite"
Deadpan. "That's not what I'm worried about"
Her smile vanishes
"What are you worried about"
A pause. "That you'll turn me into you"

---

But they're all really your shoes. You've just given them different names

bloom / ring of fire

the wheels just keep on turning
the drummer begins to drum
I don't know which way I'm going
I don't know which way I've come

---

the beggar possesses no treasures
and memory astoundingly poor
so devious and temperamental is he
the unreliable raconteur

---

the very act of forgetting
is both blessing and a curse
that each time I should fall again
feel exactly like the first

underwater

I prepared a house

to contain my sadness

and now I can't get out

---

単調な笑いは、世界は遠いと思わ

拍手、方向、星

それは、ただの画面上の架空のファンタジーだ

世界は手のひらにある, なぜ私はほこりを持ったい

まだ探して, 延々探している

単調な笑いが, 気泡を通過する際
泣きながらのように聞こえる

---

oh really? I don't think I've ever heard of you before
that's cause I'm a very specialised kind of writer
oh? how's that
I only write things that can't be published

---

just looking at the covers, as an intelligent human being and on behalf of my kind, I already hate your books

---

I think everyone should be allowed to get super melodramatic every once in a while

world music

ツッコミ 入れるよ   [tsukko-me]

---




---

I think I may have danced all my happiness away

next thing you know

how do you hope to win against such a handsome man

---

She had the sort of profile that could've been painted on the side of an ancient greek amphora, or cut out from black card in one of those silhouette portraits from the 18th century. Honestly, I've never seen the curvature of someone's forehead meet the slope of their nose at a more charming angle. Her nose itself culminated in a gentle peak, like a hill from the english countryside, modest and sweet. Her lovely lips were full and downturned slightly, looking vaguely like some kind of sensuous trapezoid. I don't know if there already exists a proper term for that exact shape, but it definitely deserves one - a distinct name of its own, and a dedicated lecture on it for architectural and art and design majors, and an award for the most appealing shape known to man, and for its likeness to be painted over and over again and framed in numerous galleries and museums around the world and eventually auctioned off to be displayed in some ostentatiously dim, velvet-filled private studio for the consideration of generations to come. Her eyebrows floated like manicured clouds, their fading borders measured perfectly. Their edges were slightly higher toward the center, a sort of winsome perplexity etched into her brow, and when she smiled - surreptitiously, never revealing teeth - it was like a single ray of sunlight peeking through a curtain of shade and drizzle. Combined with her coy, coquettish lips, her smiles were subtle concessions and always contained some sense of dolorous mystery.

---

I was once told that anything capable of being imagined is a conceivable reality; if it's true then I suppose it must be

可爱 / unheard and obscene

holiday checklist:

experience SS2 pasar malam again                    ✓
scout out prospective girlfriends there                 ✓
get an actual girlfriend                                    (KIV)

---

so what do you do in your spare time?

oh, well, sometimes I write poetry on the internet - hey wait    where are you going                  come back

pahlawan sebenar

i'm sorry, he said

and you could tell he meant it too; the way he screwed up his face and knit his brows together, hung his head low as the tears rolled down his cheeks. One thing that struck me more than all others was this, his voice was so soft. He had fought like a lion, there's no disputing that, but still, he was sorry; sorry that his indomitable nature wasn't enough to win a fiery medal; that his knees were not strong enough to support the gold-plated dreams of twenty-eight million fellow countrymen. He wasn't sorry for himself, but in spite of himself. Sorry for not being younger, for not being quicker, for not being better. But none of that really mattered. The muscular young man on the platform, clad triumphantly in red and white, proudly clutching his prize may never understand that. He may never come to terms with the fact that winning isn't all that matters, because it tastes so sweet. But those with discernment, who have tasted the bitterness of defeat and looked back will see clearly that it is the competition, the fight, the fire, the heat that consumed them from within and transformed them temporarily, for those few precious, glorious minutes, into Olympian beings of supernatural strength and speed; few people will ever be as incredibly alive as they have been. No doubt, a medal is nice to look at and victory, a worthy goal, but spirit, tenacity, guts, resolve - these are the real causes for celebration. When Dato' Lee Chong Wei sent those two words of monumental gravity, hearts twisted and dropped in front of their televisions and computer screens and in kampungs and tiny guard booths and mamaks and coffee shops all across the nation. And in one voice, they all thought/said/felt the same thing: but there's no reason to be sorry. Because he wasn't fighting for a medal. He was fighting for a country - His country, and along with it their dreams, their hopes and their hearts. And he won.

litterature

I shed winter's skin at the front door
strewn about unseemly all over the sixth floor

---

the sound of applause from afar resembles scattered rain beating down on concrete paths and iron bars

---


I have an announcement to make.        That was it.

I have another though, which is this: Based on the success of the fifty shades trilogy, I have decided to publish my own saga of poorly written fetish erotica. I'm calling the first book sexy time in rempit alley: vroom vroom
because it's the book that perverted old ladies deserve, but not the one they need right now, so we'll write it, because they can take it...

p.s. guess who I've planned to direct the movie adaptation

your bruise / 魔睡

wanted: empathetic idealists to make objective decisions and detached statisticians

---

doctors, to some extent, must learn to tune out corporate suffering and global plight, or else collapse under its weight

---

at the foot of bed 2412U, white coats and smart shirts assemble round a man holding a clipboard, leafing through pages of harried graphs and laborious results. The steady beeping of some vital machine fills the afternoon air with monotony. The rooms are sterile, tasteless, like the insipid pink curtains that surround each bed, meant to preserve privacy and provide some form of protection from the roving eyes of strangers and neighbours who are not as qualified to poke and peer and prod. The light enters mildly through the pane of windows on the far wall, weak and pale, as if affected by the restless and weary residents of the ward. Tired nurses traipse up and down the busy corridor as the ill laze dazed in their beds.

Initially admitted through GM... caustic ingestion... 500ml... esophageal-cardiac perforation... scope revealed widespread corrosive damage to upper GI... The medical officer lists the girl's afflictions meticulously as she lays languid in her cot, listless eyes gazing vaguely across the faces of her would-be saviors. Any strictures? The MO briefly consults his notes. Just one significant, above the pylorus. A man with unruly grey hair dressed in a neat brown striped shirt folds his arms and rubs his chin thoughtfully, as if it may produce some staggering epiphany. As he ponders, the group respectfully waits on his seniority. She's on oxycodone, is that right? Yes, Prof. The doctors, six of them altogether, continue their scholarly gossip in a manner and tone suggestive of undecided patrons at a restaurant or diner, keenly conferring over their menus, taking turns to select and consider the exotic dishes on offer.

She finds herself surrounded by a teacher and his disciples, shadows of serious figures looming about. The crowd chatters amongst themselves in feverish tongues; the words are slippery, their meanings elusive, lurking just out of reach. Some cast a cursory glance at her from time to time, but none ever actually venture to address her. Then again, judging by her current state, she doesn't appear particularly eager to be heard. Indeed, it is doubtful that she was ever the loquacious sort, with her long tangled hair and solemn lips conveying an exquisite frailty - a brittle quality that would shatter at the slightest of syllables. She regards the doctors as a queen would her subjects, surveying them with impassive insouciance. Her features radiate strength despite her sunken cheeks and ashen complexion. Completely inert save for the fluttering of her delicate lashes; unlike the other patients, she does not follow their gestures and expressions and invests no effort into deciphering their jargon-mangled, acronym-punctuated speech. If she is listening at all, she shows no sign of it - a disinterested guest at a poorly planned party, just waiting to leave.

Her mother, sitting anxiously beside her daughter's cot, does not share her sullen disposition. Eager to comply, she bargains with pleading eyes, hanging on every confounding word the intelligent samaritans utter to each other, as if her manner might determine the measure of mercy her beloved child receives, as if her earnestness may just earn some extra healing - a helpless interceder.

Does she recall the sensation, of the searing liquid pouring down her throat? What does she remember of the incident? What visions did she witness while her soul was away? Trapped between worlds again, ulcers burning slowly in her gut, a sharp reminder of her attempted foray into other realms; it serves as an anchor, occasionally jolting her back to reality, fated to stay forever awake. Whatever memories she may have had of that land will most likely remain there, at least till she visits it again. Even with the salve of chemicals pumping through her veins, she stills feels the throbbing pain pushing and pulling behind a makeshift wall of numbness. Tears appear along the edges of her eyes, her palpebral commissures, but her expression does not soften. Where do they come from? Not even the most genius of physicians could hope to fathom. But for now they're of no immediate concern. It's not a symptom, or at least not one that matters. The flock moves on. Doctors only deal with lives.

ode to an intrusive insect

oh yes he shall attempt to breach
these iron walls shall groan and screech
but I have sworn his prying feelers shall ne'er again reach
the radiant sun above and blessed skies a'bleached
so to thee, dear reader, I do heartily beseech
do not release him, for a lesson, I must teach:
that man has his domains and that beasts have their niche
and it would behoove wandering bugs to learn to respect each

rakan cop

you agree with people too easily
   I know

---

hospitals are by nature superstitious and emotional places. along a corridor with rows of peach coloured doors leading to innocuous rooms, a lady leans on a wall just outside the doorway, clutching her side with one hand and touching her mouth absently with the other. she stares off into the distance with dry and teary eyes that have seen no sleep. confusion and fear swim mingled in pools of regret and hope, reflected in the weathered creases fractured upon her face. a large middle aged man cradles a young girl in her twenties, sobbing softly. she is wearing a white formal blouse and matte grey skirt. her clothing is withered and wrinkled and her frame hunched and haggard. her arms have wilted, dangling at her sides like rope at the gallows. he pats her gently on the back as she rests her chin on his shoulder. her eyes are half open, glassy, as if watching a waking nightmare unfold. her stifled expressions of pain are enveloped by consolatory tenderness. his eyes are cast downwards, grimacing. shhh, it's okay. it's okay, he says

---

desperation and blame,
anxiety confounds all attempts
to grasp a rational thought
distraught, you begin to hate
even the colour of the wallpaper
as it tells you to be quiet and calm down
to get over it; this sort of thing happens all the time
the doctors are doing all they can
for you and the hundred other cases they see each day
that life goes on, just not for this one

curator's curse

すべてを手に入れる瞬間をごらん！
・・・・スローモーション・・・・
今なら僕らが世界一幸せに違いない

現実の夢

what if the land of day and queen of night are of the same coin, but two separate sides

---

hers is an exquisite kind, of wine, tinged with cruelty and bitterness, infused with sorrow,
but he who knows its flavour can never forget her taste, mistress of the morn and morrow

---

deceitful smile, so tame and wild
what precious pains could bear
could yield such tortured eyes, o woeful child
what sweet despair, the voice of suns
swallowed, eclipsed, abyss consumed
the serpentine glow of tempestuous skies
of boisterous winds and violent nights
are met, reflected, in her face,
a storm, seething, about to rise

---

so if you lose control just let it go, show off the fire
heart of gold, a hole, it burns with a cold desire
frozen old, your leaves will fold, begin to shatter
so it goes, the mirror whispers to her admirer - a dream of what is real