"so how can you tell me, you're looooneleee
don't say for you that the sun don't shine."

how do you seek solutions to problems? usually you state the problem, classify it, use logic or an appropriate problem-solving heuristic and crank it through the machine. if it involves getting it done, get it done.

some songwriters never give an answer. they take you through, observe, show you stuff, describe the world and say, "get some perspective", or "free your mind".

she listens, and she gets the worst of me. she gets the accumulated frustration, the taxi driver who doesn't know the way, who leaves his window open because he can't be arsed to stop smoking. the snarling traffic, the morning light, the insects, the dust and the jumping meter. the frustration of being promised a report and being sent it late. the frustration at night sometimes that there's no one to disturb to see if they're disturbably human, or no one for whom it seems what you do or what you think matters.

is it any wonder then, that she thinks there is no joy or sunshine in your life? you save all your unhappy thoughts, your contradictions, and you funnel them out for the one person who understands. but how can they understand you, when they look through the funnel?

paper then, is objectively neutral. it is forced to listen. how do you describe the sunshine? there is nothing to talk about, sunshine. you bask in sunshine, you enjoy it at the time. it is difficult to imagine going home, saving a snippet of conversation that goes: "how was today?" "today was the sunshine", you reply. "the sunshine?" "yes, the sunshine! the afternoon sunshine and the bustle." it is the different rays of sunshine, they are hitting me at a different angle from you in singapore. they've taken eight and a half minutes to reach me, and probably the same for you.

today was also the breastfeeding woman. they find comfort in pairs (no, not the breasts), they lurk and stalk at the overhead bridges, frightening you with their honesty. money is what they need, and they're unashamed to admit it. sensing that you're insufficiently shocked or convinced, they have as their weapon a baby and their breasts. not pornographically attractive, i'm afraid, but it's meant to convince you. "i need it, i need it for i am suckling my young. how am i to provide them with nourishment?" it works, for the people put in their change and rush around providing for their young (or future young) as well.

every city has a different song. give me a map, maps make me happy, i've known that since geography. when i fly to semarang, i know i will settle in the mood of the place. no longer the bustle here, a quieter, more colonial atmosphere.

i am just like everyone else. i am not happy, not sad, not lonely, i am a body with a pair of eyes and ears and a nose and a mouth, and life flows in through them. all the people i've respected have been eyes and ears. some call them prophets. and this is what i love.

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