My eyes closed
in a sea of crowd,
watching colour dance
on canvas after canvas.

I stood still
in a corner,
plotting an escape
disguised as apathy.

I asked, "are we the same,
or are we different?"
My echo made no decision.

Ghost made of dust haunt us
between ceilings and walls,
so we write our names in full
on small tags.

Blue ink hits the ground
as incredulous drops,
pretending to be life stories
beneath debris.

Shall we remember
Should we ponder
with those intoxicated brain cells
better known as souls?

Tomorrow, maybe-
tomorrow.

Twisting a dry towel,
a red tide emerges between my fingers.
Drips, escapes
from my boiling skin.

Writing a silent song,
a pen lies flat on top of the paper.
Dies, fades away
from my frantic muse.

Thus I begin my pursuit,
gaining an inch of flesh,
losing a strand of hair
with
every
step.

Punch a key,
make insipid confessions
in your cubicle.

Punch the key,
send contradicting truths
on your beds.

And press 'Publish',
an hopeful attempt to transcend theoretical virtues
from Starbucks
or a coffee shop of

your choice.

Billions of hearts murmur
under the same moon
on a murky Sunday.

"Help me."

Writing with a pencil makes me feel alive, like I am leaving a mark. Even when the paper I write on gets burnt eventually, the ashes will rise up and become part of the world. It is substance, perhaps... proof of the soul?

Take them
straight out of the humidor,
hang them out to dry.

Observe, and
write me a report.

Ten pages, double-spaced.

There is nothing left,
nothing right either.

Love
the development the roads the bright reflection the hundreds of thousands of stories the moisture the warmth of humanity the fusion of worlds the pride of accomplishment through years of striving.

Hate
destruction,
concrete,
blinding rays,
hundreds of thousands of identical manikins,
humidity,
heat of corpses,
disabled hybrid of cultures
shame of losing sanity year by year.

The world is a spectrum of people, divided by their natures and their circumstances. We are very, very far apart in the spectrum (as far as I know, pun not intended). For that reason, despite being in the same spectrum, we are foreign - exotic, for a more emotional word of choice - to each other. Any interest you ever have had in me was based on the fact that I am so different. You know, the Oh, I haven't encountered that before! sentiment.

I understand it all, as I always have.

Nobody needs any particular place.
They need a person, and they believe the person is in that place.

Light beams through the glass of shiny skyscrapers.
Ants being burnt under a magnifying glass,
Now think of the right questions to ask.

Crowds rush past the skin of numb arms.
Grass being trampled by tribes of horses.
Now decide where to go beyond the lights.

Space is priceless because it is non-existent.
Soul is priceless because it is only imagining.

No fashion pages,
no masculine images,
no colorful snacks
is going to cover the wounds
as soon as you start to walk on
the wounds break.

The engagement ring burns a hole in his pocket
and slips away.

Every day I smile for you, I will put a sweet in a jar. When you get the full jar of sweets, you will know how long I have managed to get by because of you.

Sometimes people look back and do not understand why they were so pissed off in the first place.

When she is in pain, she counts her moles. They increase by one each time.

Hello. My name is Alice. I am writing a book about myself.

I am nine years old. I go to Good Hope Primary School. I like English and I don't like Mathematics. I like cakes, trains and robots and I dislike spinach, cheese and poo.

I want to write a book because I have a bad memory. Mum is always cross because I have forgotten to do my homework. Dad said I don't have a bad memory, just a very selective one, like mum. Then they started arguing.

"What do you mean?" Mum said.
"What have I done now?" Dad said.

I think he meant that Mum watched Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? when I was in her tummy.

I have a little brother, his name is Peter. Peter is five years old. He likes climbing. Last year, he fell down from the upper bulk of our bed. I thought he would die, but he stood up and started climbing again. Dad called him determined, and mum was cross again.

Hello. I am writing a book about myself and the person I love. We believe we had met and fallen in love before - we might have, but the best part is that we will never know.