Rain pours here in Singapore. I slouch on the couch and listen, intently. I came here in search of my muse. I should have remained aloof. What’s done is done.
Age is approaching, all of us. Always has. I reach out and pick up my glass of water. I look through it at the raindrops rolling down the pane. Fluidity of soul would be a nice way to start the day.
The water tastes like cigarettes. No, my mouth does. The water is the victim, here. Where is here? I am in Singapore searching. You’re not. This makes no sense.
This couch is most uncomfortable. My naked ass is sticking to it. Looks like I lost my pants, last night. I recall the rain-dance but not what followed. There’s a belt in the hallway. I can see the buckle, now.
Someone is crying next door. I hear her through the wall. She sounds like the clouds.
Blue is my new favorite color. Nothing in this room is blue and neither am I. I am not blue in the least. Sure, my muse has eluded me. So what? Water under the bridge.
(Musings Part I)