I suppose I could write about a great many things. I could write about the ticks and the old man who whipped out the typewriter at the Immigrations & Checkpoints Authority. About how the inside of my nose is swelling because I believe I had McDonalds for lunch this afternoon which makes me feel grouchy and not nice (so why do i still eat it). I suppose I could speak about Netheravon Road & the old colonial buildings in the Changi area. Or the refrains of Pearl jam's 'Last Kiss' wandering down Orchard Road.

I suppose I could tell of how I lived happily ever after, ate an oreo cheesecake, stuck with my siblings through thick and thin, plucked a baby through a burning fire. i suppose i could be blissfully in someone's arms, or bitching about the way they treated me. or perhaps i have a logging station in the alpine snow, watching the snowflakes fall to the ground. i suppose i have lived many lives, but i've lived none yet.