'Every Place Is A House'

[Listening: Maps & Atlases]

The weeks have been fast; the days like hours. I have lost the ability to remember much of my dreams; am only able to regurgitate pieces so minute and unrelated to each other that they would feed no one's imagination. Clandestine moments. Like it had been on the bus; the accompanying dark occasionally making way for the passing ochre streetlights. The monotony of broken records which keep repeating. ("What would be the one song that you would have played over and over as you wait in limbo; if given the choice?" a friend had asked once.)

I have been keeping myself late at the office; checking and replying what I need to online since my cybercafe haunt had closed (but no matter how times I visit the place expecting to see it somehow reopen each time: it's not.) I've not seen the bus which takes the Gurney plaza route for a while now. My post-work life has been limited to the search for dinner, the journey home, the four corners of my room. I'm surprised however that I'm not complaining (it's actually more bearable than it sounds). I would believe that this is attributed to the long hours spent alone with Lego and the Micro Genius (the Malaysian equivalent for the Nintendo, I think) during my upbringing. No, I'm not proud.

I guess I can still write on the weekends or something.

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