5 am

, the sound of my fan accompanies me.
And the sudden loud sneeze from possibly the neighbour made me mistook it for something else.
The sound of a bus, which I recognize, because I took many of them in my lifetime.

I learned of cheekbones
Because my friend pointed out that
Fann Wong has high ones.
I realized I can't see mine
Even when I smile.

We don't mix
Okay maybe we do
We blend
You blend us
In this mixing bowl
But sometimes
The batter end up
God
Awful

Beautiful descriptions

"She sat listening to music. It was a symphony of triumph. The notes flowed up, they spoke of rising and they were the rising itself, they were the essence and the form of upward motion, they seemed to embody every human act and thought that had ascent as its motive. It was a soundburst of sound, breaking out of hiding and spreading open. It had the freedom of release and the tension of purpose. It swept space clean, and left nothing but the joy of an unobstructed effort. Only a faint echo within the sounds spoke of that from which the music had escaped, but spoke in laughing astonishment at the discovery that there was no ugliness or pain, and there never had had to be. It was the song of an immense deliverance."

- Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged.

I sat listening to many music. It was a messy piece, but it seems to come together nicely, these multiple sounds coming from instruments I don't quite recognize. The singer sang words I didn't follow, but didn't bother to follow.

I have listened to the track a hundred of times, knew the ups and downs of the long piece, knew the empty seconds where no instruments played, the ones they left in between the music to make you think "awesome, man!"

I am 27 and I know nothing about politics. I don't know the struggles of our forefathers. I only heard of them. I sing "Onward Singapore" in a language that I only know the few words such as "to eat" (makan) and the various food items I order from the Nasi Padang store: "Bergedil, Rebus, Nasi". I don't know what Chee Soon Juan is angry about.

Catcher in the Rye

the story was partially in new york city, right?

Layers

Take my time

To know the many layers

of you

Your past

The painter with his strokes covered up

The video editor with his hidden tracks

The writer and his shredded drafts

The science student with his dead lab rat

It is okay

To have a past