There must be something beyond my writing, the hair, those fats and that man that I can write about.

*in defeat* well, except I can't think of any right now.

I have been hibernating and rewriting (read: typing what I've handwritten years ago into proper Chinese characters using 南极星...and it's really years ago, dated from JC). It's tedious and thankless, coz every couple of sentences, I would stop, pause and ask myself why am I bothering. The crap would never make it; I would never make it. It's quite sad, really. I type real slowly, and attempt to offset inherent imperfections and lack of storyline with lyrical, poetic lines that hopefully would convince the reader that the disembodied tale is postmodern and innovative, and cheem. Even sadder is how I can almost believe that myself the more I write with that intention. Suddenly the lie becomes a theme I'm weaving into the plot.

It's too hot to go anywhere, too hot to run.

I need space, exercise and someone to talk to who wouldn't irritate me unnecessarily with stupid, unfounded remarks that are not even funny, someone who I can believe understand, can spare me all the time in the world to hear my little anxieties and explore them at length, in depth, so that I can cope with my weird life, weird friends and weird needs.

I guess the last bit is a bit too much. I have never found that someone again. So, I also need more $$$ as a distraction. I'm watching plays and musicals, and movies to starve away the emotional loneliness. The shopping and singing help too.
So does the writing that doesn't go anywhere but I'm shaping it to whittle away time, while I wait, for what, I know not. And see, a day has passed without my realising. I give it, say, two months, is that too long to mock-wait?

为什么没有星星的夜晚
你总不在我身旁 为什么满天星星的夜晚
你就告诉我你不想留在那里 噢...一分半秒
告诉我你不再爱我有多难

说 说你不爱我
我不会把你踢到大沙漠 说 说你不爱我 Woo...
我不会把你踢到大沙漠