1. On the bus, about twelve midnight, I past an empty carpark next to a hawker centre. (actually, it was only almost empty, a white truck was parked there)
2. Faint amber framed by the dark trees surrounding the rectangular lot, this scene was quiet and still. But I, as the only passenger on top of this slow moving double-decker, was the one who could not keep still - to make an image move without moving it.
3. I thought about what I always remember, each time I see a huge empty carpark at night, what he said about twenty years ago, when the band, all the way from Seattle, was here to promote the album but did not perform, 'give me an empty carpark and I will play you a gig.'
4. The white truck is the type with a heavy air-tight door at the back - good for transporting ice, chicken, laundry or artworks. Perhaps, the type of truck that killed a French literary theorist I half understood.
5. I thought about the awkwardness of being a loquacious stutterer, all the colour-blind painters which are celebrated as unique in art schools now. I thought about the trouble of a half-literate man who has decided to write down what he is too shy, or lacking in eloquence, to say.
6. Trouble, if only it is an exaggeration to call it misery. Two hours to type a paragraph is trouble not misery.
7. Or told to write instead of telling because his son told him he is too long-winded.
8. I find the convenience of silence suspicous than virtuous.
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