Konichiwa Bitches (from Beijing to Saigon)
At present, from the moment I wake up, I would be automatically entering a hurricane as I hustle from one place to another, up and down stairwells with much haste, speak to different tutors about ambiguities at hand (especially with regard to vindication of rights, how I still cannot accept the reasons for such a biological imperative and distinction in writing), unload articles and books in and out of libraries and offices without a sound, then make my way back to the city to feed the voracious demon of our fleeting (and ever-fleeing, immoral) society, but only for the sake of my German fund. When I do get to breathe a little, it is the point where I turn a page, or the space between sentences just before my eyes proceed to the next line, when I am waiting for the train (only to be greeted by you know what), or when I am can finally sit down on my luxurious upside-down grey bucket where The Postal Service is playing overhead (about stars, kisses, freckles and alignment) and having a hearty book on my lap, lime-green. These moments would be the eye of my (daily) storm. Having said that, I quite enjoy zipzipping around, except traveling from the village to the city, but other than that I like to be occupied. A lot. Mich saved me with her magical dollar again, for the second time, Thank you! And for tea as well.
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This illusion, or disillusion, I never paid much attention to. Everything looks perfect from far away, and I hope, and pray, that I can keep this glorious distance. Stay here to see this view from such great heights. "Come down now," they'll say. Stay with me, Brevity.