as sincere as a dog

First sentence is my wall. Holeless wall. Not like Pyramus and Thisbe’s.



Tipsy. Yet I still managed to indicate the timestamp. Perfunctorily. It’s officially a habit.

Had a drink with Joan in Cantina. I feel inebriated. Weird. Feeling. I feel like a puppet, the half-pitcher of margarita in-control of my strings.

SLEX na.

Cool beans. I miss Denise. I miss Bates.

The bag which fell from my lap, is it an indication that I’m drunk? Yes? No? Vehicles, speeding before my eyes, are just part of this exaggerated illusion.

thoughts while in-transit

Ammu. Sophie Mol. Your spirits visit me in the bus.


No junk food for my soul please. It is sick, and it needs TLC.
My seatmate keeps doing the tsk sound.
And now the public school boys and girls entered the public bus, very fitting.


I forgot what “by and large” means. Randomly missing Kazuo Ishiguro’s writing. Never Let Me Go has been real good, the quintessential page-turner, so deserving of my five stars.


The girl conductor who collected my bus fee earlier had a blue tshirt on, with “Gloria” imprinted on the left chest part. And I distinctly remembered Gloria who serviced a bus I rode before. I was pleased to meet her again (small world Eureeka moments are such dopamine inducers). But I was deceived. The conductor’s name wasn’t Gloria. It is the bus’s name. And a tremendous number of Gloria conductors are in their respective buses strutting about in the isles deceiving people like me.


If I could write forever, I would.

dark and light and black and white

Insufficient light waves (or particles) prevent them shifty curious eyes from looking.

Back to thinking-writing. Work has been a bitch. Life is not supposed to be like this. Life is supposed to be a lazy Sunday afternoon watching Lost episodes with a bowl of butter popcorn and iced coffee within a hand’s reach. Sprawling in clean bedsheets. AC turned on.


Writing in the shuttle, writing in the dark. It’s not pitch black but dark enough to make the letters fall off my notebook’s lines.

Pitch black – where did that idiom come from?


Dark light. Black white. Dark white. Black light.
Black white. Dark light. Dim Bight. Dark white.
Dark bright. Black light. Black bright. Dim white. Dim light.

Methinks this permutation is only one third poetic

another dream in a dream

I dreamt that I dreamt…

I was a newly wed. My husband and I were staying in a small condo with warm yellow walls. We had two cats. One white, one striped brown. The striped brown one named Paula leapt on top of the table, and mixed the lumpia concoction with egg. The action was very human, but we weren’t surprised at all. It was like seeing a typical dog trick.

And when I woke up in my dream, I chronicled it in my fake moleskine.
And now that I woke up from my real dream, I’m chronicling it online.