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.

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.

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?

There is nothing left,
nothing right either.

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.

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.

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

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

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.