see that gust of powder far from red or golden. gullies and gullies of eyes jittery. all being pulled at once from all six directions in all dimensions. three petals and a sword they widen, widen and still widen. the expanding spiral majestic green-and-orange striped ray of sound, pigments spilling out between the teeth- tiny transparent hairs. each of them indulge in any colour they like. three of them, two hundred sixty four of them. vibrant smell of rosewood behind the snow dripping off each and every lash. bottomlessly brown bodies, slow and elegant- fluid and strong, light, very light. impossibly light. a step offbeat, a hop right on the next. the hair dyed green this time by an invisible army of invisible invisibles. crackles. ten thousand, ten ten thousand, ten ten thousand thousand ten old record player. flowery but brown horns crackling. very horny. he sobbed rather being a miserable something the not-so-miserable miserable would choose being nothing instead, like a gust of transparent powder. nothing transparent is ever really transparent. water, glass, crystal. crystals just have to include a slight fine touch of personality in their craft of shape shifting. indecisively confused about what to be. always in between, looking like a pair of wild wings soaring in the sky, merely looking like. at least they can look like anything without not looking like themselves anymore. the blind eyes always have a preset, default for how things should look like regardless of what they are actually made of. not even the blind eye. hearts, clubs, diamonds. and spades. a heart, a black heart upside down, stuck on a stick. a war? an assassination? an accident? maybe the owner deserved it. the lust to be a hero, to perform the act of justice the act of cleansing the act of guessing who has the black, rotten heart. the black heart always comes out in the end, from one or another. fool proof plan really. the striped kitten lays its innocent paws on something. a dirty thief. tappity tappity trippty klick. someone is tap dancing along the corridor about the castle. the corridor with water and the spade got the black fish. what a mistake to watch life like a black and white movie, it plays fine, it crackles still, it rises and sets, but red becomes dark grey almost black. the river hound's arsenal of ivory grinders. ivory rams step back and the rubies shine the colour of flesh. of lust. of desire. for anything. for pride for honour for instinct. the black fish is not black and the horny rams now bathe in the ribbons of wine. everything is forming a helix with the closest thing it can find. the black fish is red but ivory is now black. there is always a spade dealt in a game.

rare has one witnessed such
a lukewarm stale red ocean
swelling under the setting sun
to land blows the pungent breeze

ivory decks creep along
thousands of sharp black oars
penetrate mercilessly
quietly silently a frenzy

the young beetles are hatching
deep in the heart of the ocean
we all adore the yellow submarines
the underwater explorers

the gluttonous maggots
gnawing the seconds away
paddle and so paddle on
sailing to the other world

look me in the eye,

and say, 'i would not miss you.'

am i making any sense?

p.s. how does the eye look, regardless of the bad technology.

another recurring dream. i knew it was going to be a recurring one since the first time i dreamt of it. i remember it too well that it is not possible that i have/will only dream it once.

they are almost always the same in terms of the order of the venues. a tiny, narrow shopping mall of 3 stories, a zebra crossing where everyone from the mall has to take in order to really leave the district- except me, the dark and wide upward slope i always chose to take instead of the crossing- after the slope there was a fenced area, of the size of a car park roughly, then a building of about five stories, dark red at night-somewhat orange when lit, which is the dream's destination.

the malls all looked the same, it has been empty once, it has also been mad crowded or zombie-like drones infested. none could seem to see me i think. every time i was trying to get the heck out of the mall. i just felt like i had to- even though i had not bought anything even. the empty mall was fully in business, that was the strange thing; everyone in that packed mall was trying to go the exact opposite direction as i was, seemingly running away from something outside the mall; and in the zombie mall nothing was in business but yet people window(metal gate) shop and try to buy this and that. i think i always somehow woke up in that mall. i have dreamt of shopping malls a few times this summer- i never liked malls too much i have to say, especially those packed ones. there was a person who could see me from that mall of drones on the way out, and he was speaking in mandarin to me. i asked in cantonese why and he switched to cantonese. strange how my dreams have become a language cocktail. i heard and spoke others later on.

sometimes the crossing was empty but loaded with people waiting for that eternal red light to turn green so they can cross, sometimes it was simply empty, well lit, with a green light on but looking way too normal and safe. sometimes it is just in normal working order with normal people flow. that vaguely reminds me of a part of the street somewhere near where i live in hong kong. i had a night of drinking and got off the bus not knowing where i am because i thought i saw the building i live in- apparently there are a lot of look alikes. so i was walking for a bit and thought i should find a dark place and take a nap... and i did. after an hour or two i woke up, wasn't robbed. first thing i saw was that zebra crossing lit by the dim, yellow street lights. i always thing it is there i saw in the dream.

anyhow i always end up taking the other path which no matter how no one takes- that dark, upward slope. a strangely safe and warm feeling whenever i passed there. i think i should not feel that way but it happened to be a pleasant feeling. alone in the dark, walking upwards and not really knowing what is over the top- the best part of the recurring thriller- also the worst part knowing the cliché of the silence before storms. in the middle of the slope appeared the fenced area on the side. there are usually a flock of unexpected things locked up in there, animals, plants that move, people, cars, all identical. never bothered to walk towards the gate but one time i did. there were two people amongst the cars- the guy who spoke to me in mandarin and another mysterious guy. i told one of them to click their car-lock thing at random directions and the car that beeps is his. and i told another in english to get out of there safe and a couple other things about what i saw in the mall.

that wasn't the storm of course. the real storm was when i saw the dark red building. there was a bush by the front door and i swear i will not get close to that bush no matter what. there must be something inside- come on, late night, bush next to your front door? sometimes stray dogs popped out of the bush and i ran towards the front door, yelling at the windows begging one of them to tell me the code to unlock the door, i didn't remember if that worked. probably not. sometimes i push the doorbell and my cell would ring and was told that i am not allowed in anymore, and then random babies and kids will appear, first fiddling me as a huge plush toy then started eating me for some reasons. or even stranger, like last night, a huge meteor headed towards me and i woke up.

gigantic, red hot meteor.

what happens when your own amulet does not work? or maybe it is working- nothing is going too well as always, but nothing especially wrong is happening either. the pleasant vanished as expected but days still have to be lived. i would rather like to believe that the shiny coin has been protecting me from the wrongs. but all that remains now is void. days have become simple. so simple that the life of a plankton is painted with more vibrant colours. enjoyable, leisure days are never simple. take a walk in pleasant weather, chat with people you like, a cup of nice coffee, make your own meal. whatever. but not so simple that nothing happens, nothing can happen.

blame me for the lack of incentive. days and days of waking up late, madly helplessly switching between maniac enthusiasm for strange ideas projects and objects which will be failed in one way or another and desperation resulted from failure and oppression of uncontrollable but irresistible inner rage nowhere to be spent. that is bound to make someone mad in one way or another. but days still really have to be lived. nothing is stranger than keep having to return to a place which you never knew and having to stay for months with people whom you are supposed to know- and you know you do not anymore.

sitting in my concrete box after meal time, after with all my power trying not to pick a fight with anyone or anything i hear and see, i hear a quartet performing a song. not the kind of song i enjoy but a complete, rich piece of composition. i just had another confirmation on how far i have grown out of those voices barely five metres away from me after all these years.

i cup my hands and put them together, tips of ring fingers barely touching, palms facing myself. there is a little crack between the two little fingers. going through that tiny fracture of space and time is the only way to disappear as i wish. no one knows how exactly it is behind the doorway, no one has ever come back- or maybe no one has ever succeed. even if anyone has, with a little help from the goddess herself, no two other sides are the same. staying on this side is fine, i am going to make it one way or another, but given the chance anybody would escape- try to disappear. there is no reason why one would reject the idea of moving to the hollow centre of the world permanently. i found the pathway right there between my palms- the one to the centre of my world. i could even smell it. the smell of the sea, of the forests, of the mountains, of the lakes, of the excitement, of the fear, of the madness of the other side. forcing through the itsy bitsy crack, eyes closed and the next thing i felt was my forehead on the corner of a cupboard.

being dry for two days is one of the excuse i come up with.

my heart cries when i see pictures of narwhals and belugas.

if i get to choose.
can i be the corpse whale next game?
narhval-the narwhal.
lady 'round the harpoon

if you get to choose.
can i be the white whale next round?
white beluga
narwhal's lonely brother

but they never get to choose.
stop killing unneccessarily
not only
monodontidae

my heart cries
when i see pictures of
narwhals and belugas
i don't know why
they did nothing wrong
except being
too attractive
too rare
too special
too mythological
too gorgeous
too arctic
too vulnerable

in there you begin to lose the sense of time, the sense of creativity, the sense of reality, the sense of everything. everything that happens happens as if it has never happened while things never happened happens as if it has indeed happened. day and night seem to be the same state of mind, so is fast and slow. step on the floor, on where you would like to believe the floor is- it is that or about 100 meters of void between the closest thing beneath- step on the floor and it melts. the air is thickened by abandoned hopes. the smell of dying wishes outlined by rusty red trails on the plain white walls- ah, almost, almost still alive that there is a pinch of pleasantness in the scent, almost a scent, in the, stench.

you see, 'there' has become a place where it does not matter, in fact it does not matter where like mosquitoes matter not in the eyes of bears, or salmon in frogs'. it is just there. one goes in there, not on, not out of, also into. silky trees- in fact they are wrapped around by silky tears, blue silky tears of different shades depending on the occasion and reason. tiny broken dolls find their peace of mind, but never of their bodies on the floor where he looks for his piece of mind. deep green canvas jacket and bright orange trousers- a few pieces of cellophane here and there, the dolls were once not what you think they are. people were always once not what you think they are, so were things. in there the soft, melting ground sparkles, a grossly abundant mine of jewels- how explosive, tears of fairies and pixies. and time, it is when the concept of almost becomes almost so useful that it is almost indispensable. time has almost stopped. there sits time on top of his little sand dune of philosophical contemplations, burning life away fueling his heart-aching troubles, dragging everything else down- dragging everything else stationary, at least, maybe not down.

the universe does not go in one straight line, even if it does one has the feeling it does not. pacing here and there, back and forth, up and down, left and right, to and from, in and on the same space hoping the fabric might be torn at some point on the line, the route, the track and something, anything even almost, almost like nothing would be different, all different. walking here and there, back and forth, up and down, left and right, to and from, in and on the same space hoping the fabric might be torn at some point on the line, the track and something, anything even almost, almost like nothing would be different, all different. walking here and there, back and forth, left and right, up and down, to and from, in and on the same space hoping the fabric might be torn at some point on the line, and something, anything even almost, almost like nothing would be different, all different. i think i have found my answer to that.

i remember seeing a vortex, a real one on paper. i liked that vortex because it was a product of intriguing frustration, an involuntary expression of affinity towards another bigger vortex in a box. nonetheless an irregular one just like 'there'. it was even labeled vortex just to be sure. in the vortex there are scary fishes as gifts but it does not matter. it was a good vortex and the scary fishes are actually quite cute. on my right hand bad vortices do not produce eggs like hens nor mammals. and life has become a vortex within a forest of metal fan blades. whirl, whirl creep, whirl thud, yak, whirl kaboom, crack crawl float, camera finger, sizzling mechanical chowder with clams and broccoli. that about how the vortex sounds like from within, deep within as if this is what the centre, the heart of the vortex- the vortex itself will hear. at least that's what i heard.

the heat is still here but the dreaming is gone. escaping and forgetting myself, immersed in a synthesized world seem to be my first priority these days. lapses between lapsing into lapses from lapsing back to reality are the most painful. the touch of nothingness becomes so strong i switch mode automatically once my consciousness is conscious. music seem to possess a therapeutic value recently even more than that of before. detachment-escapist is a sacred and risky occupation. visualizing sounds is by far my favourite method nowadays when anything else is scarce. seeing everything around you fade into a blast of sand in all and no colours, deforming and reforming into pictures, objects, sounds, feelings, mindsets. what more can one ask for? i looked into the mirror when i woke up this morning and it took me more than a second to recognize who i was looking at. i smelled the stale air in the apartment when i recognized who i was this afternoon and it took me more than five minutes to recognize the smell of fried eggs. i looked at the person who came into my room and handed me something to eat and it took me more than a second to recognize that person is my mother. i looked at my room turn into a explosion of rainbows with a grey overtone and it took me no time to find the best comfort ever. another lapse. wooden tiles curl and bend like earthworms. an army of earthworms marching crawling diagonally across the apartment towards me when the crowd claps and cheers. plastic cords turn into chords in their image form and slowly builds up into an ecosystem of itself. somewhat reminiscent of my depiction of the early earth. i looked into the mirror again. i see no bars wielded across my eyes and that confuses me. leaned against those bars a mere ten minutes ago and the mirror told me they are not there. someone told me there is no fun staring at a blank wall. i told someone watching the wall turn from white to glowing yellow as it disintegrates into a pile of mud and hardens as a storm of sledge hammer rages from the heaven below is not fun indeed but it is better than staring at the wall.

plus i do all these when i am completely sober. i dare you to do it like me. the hardest part is not being caught. start running. now.

my watch stopped

my watch stopped again because i don't wear it enough. its battery runs on light so it stops if i don't wear and look at it. i have my excuse though. i never had to wear a watch during classes before summer (or the situation simply does not allow). and it is really hot to wear a rather heavy watch with a metal band in summer, and i rarely go out anyway. just to find another excuse to make myself feel less guilty for my rather significant and important watch, my right wrist has been fairly handicapped for about 3 weeks now- as a lefty my watch stays on my right wrist so it does not get in my way when i am doing more important things. ouch. my tongue hurts.

there is always something else more important unless your watch is the only thing around. time is something rationed so perfectly well that there should always be a tiny little bit reserved for the watch once in a while if circumstances allow, and only when you really, really need it. but when things happen, they always need more than expected and time for the watch is automatically rescheduled. watches are not really exciting individuals- walking in circles is the only thing they do when you pay attention. but when you do not... they try to speed up or slow down, just to be more interesting in case someone has the rare spare second. trying and managing are not quite the same though. desperate attempts have been carried out in the history of time. it is known to actively desperately try getting into the spot light, also known to simply refuse working. in most cases such watches are abandoned or replaced with something better and easier to deal with. there are, of course, also watches which humans acquire to display, caged animals at the zoo- those are referred as trophy watches by some. if a person owns a watch it is almost always worn. the watch goes wherever the person goes, doing whatever is important at the time, quietly awaits that second of its life. they know that the watch will always be on that one out of two wrists, no matter what. the sky, the ground and the earth will always be here, figuratively speaking. maybe we should as well stop being bothered to look at those- or maybe we did already. watches wait for that occasional second just to inform humans of time- so that humans know how to spend time better, on more important things of course. staring at watches is no interesting activity- but they certainly do deserve more attention from us busy beings. at least my watch does deserve more attention from me, even though it is too hot and heavy for spring and summer and i am too busy for it in fall and winter.

don't forget to say hello and ask how your watch is getting on from time to time- not only when you need to know about time. now i have to figure out a way to get my watch running again- just for your information, it is not even telling the right time. i have no idea in which time zone my watch has been living, most probably canadian but you never know, especially with my paraphernalia. they all live a life of their own, following a set of their own rules. belonging to me is just a cover up or a compromise designed by them in order to exist and live rather freely in our world without being exposed and noticed. hey there is a price for everything you do.

i think coffee really makes your brain go funny. i was talking about my watch! what do i care? a lot of coffee actually. i had the sudden urge to put on my caveman coat and have 5 mugs of instant coffee, collecting and rearranging random things around the apartment, pacing back and forth. and i think the effect is carried over from last night- the coffee was actually not that long ago. if drinking is joysailing aimlessly at sea until you are sunken by a storm or a monster; coffee, lots of coffee, is like riding my usual train of thought but without the already deranged tracks until the wheels fall off. i think i found another meaning for the word joyriding.

but lots of coffee definitely gives you some form of hangover the next morning.

by the way during the evening news yesterday, i was told by the television (which always tells the truth) that 1 out of 5 people in hong kong suffers from bipolar disorder, so they estimate.

hear that? lunch! see? there are always exits of sorts in/conveniently positioned right in front of you.

lakkal moyak zzan whiool butukap azam. kh' zzan azam lak ogu haqvyak- hess lak moyak ogu qvpr'? hess lak tayak miean khuni? lak hm' ogu. sikap lak qvyak lilm susukap hiprakyak lak. maam ve ma qvyak lak moyak brliskehkap. a. lak moyak.

maam haqvyak ogu haqvyak lak?
lak qvyak ogu.

seriously.