in waiting, we write.
there are a multitude of things to talk about, aside from the fragmentary impressions of courses taken within a day. all four women traveled two hundred kilometers away and yet you spent time in the train, one, reading sylvia plath’s Journal, second, writing a yet to be posted letter, third, staring out of the window watching twenty somethings clad in tight dresses and sharp suits rejoicing in what seems to be the end of the weekend, drunk in all excitement, guffaw guffaw annoying voices that rings across the carriage (no one goes as far to Broadmeadow, dear). the arrival. the greeting the occasional customary chat of getting to know each other, the act of introduction, the drowsiness of not getting enough sleep, another house, another lawn, another room, another kitchen, another longing. you are used to this constant newness.
the ideal home, or the ideal house, that is, for you, have the following criteria, one, a spotless kitchen, orderly, second, enough windows as to allow as much sunlight as possible (no curtains drawn at any time of the day, please), third, a sofa to read, the fourth, allows as much external stimulation from the environment, such that you know something exists and moves outside, be it noise, a movement, a car zooming through, the old blind woman passing through (all this, so that you are not perpetually in isolation). okay and probably, most important of all, is the nearness towards all things convenient.
your place, as of now, lacks the first (the perks of living with other people, but oh well).
nak tulis lagi tapi dah malas.
bye.
perkaraperkara 