the new train stations are giant underground caves of metal, marble and granite. they feel like airports. but instead of aeroplanes taking flight, we watch trains pull into test tube tunnels. it is always too bright and too clean in here. no one tries to own the space with graffiti. the bravest citizens only venture so far as to paste little stickers in awkward corners, stickers they have received in exchange for charity. hardly badass. B tries to tap his old ez-link card, but it doesn’t work anymore. i explain that this city is obsessed with evolution. he marvels at our manufactured modernity. a bell jar of shiny seeds planted by the men in white. he said time runs faster here. familiar spaces disappear too quickly. we are left wanting with faded photographs, consoled by a collective memory archived in digital worlds. we spent the weekend watching artists work off paper and onto walls, sitting beneath fairytale trees dripping gold. the arts festival opened with the park set ablaze, the most beautiful state it will ever be. a bonfire beneath skyscrapers.

afternoon of brunch and boats. foolish timing. though our feet dangle cool, we melt in the marina amongst the smell of burning resin. brunch is half a roast duck, lamb mince and a homemade fish salsa. we stopped going to cold storage ever since tekka reopened. the meats here fresher, cheaper, and wrapped with human hands. the duck is leaner, and comes with two dumpling sized packets of sweet sauce and freshly ground chili  // tonight N brought us to her world where her love is shared with men older, but more disadvantaged than us. the men are kind and curious – are you married? why you no marry? he is your husband? – i wish i could speak their language, it is difficult to explain my position or help them make sense of singaporean society. if i was born a train-ride away, i could be a mother of five, not the wanderer that only wants to raise one cat, no children // we are at a play, built from letters between lovers, forgotten archives and stolen words from kuo pao kun. there are two rings of chairs where we are seated, strangers locked in circles and stares. a row of fluorescent tubes divide this perfect circle, overturning the ceiling, bleeding white light into our eyes. i learn about the affinity of people, place, opportunity. this gives me hope. but we are all salmon. we spend our youth scheming our exit, taking off in buses trains planes, but one day, we will return to die in this land.

view from the ground, pre-rain, last day on campus

today, a volcanic ash cloud spread like a disease, shutting down airports, grounding people and planes. experts debate the health risks of volcanic ash, businesses fret about airline stocks dipping, and everyone seems to have forgotten about the earthquake in china. our collective memory lasts only a day. tomorrow there will be a new headline, a freshly inked disaster, something new to worry about. one day, our sympathy too will expire in a day // week of missed connections and unexpected gifts. saw flowers painted by feet, impossible things my hands will never do. he brought me to his secret hole, and we cupped freshly steamed lattes, double shot, and watched teenage misfits below eye level. he says our eyes lie to us – in reality, the world in our iris glows amber. i cannot remember the scientific theory behind, only that durian snow dumplings are the most divine offerings on neil road. the other day we studied ink on paper, of old people as beautiful trees, skin like bark. for some strange reason, it made me feel less afraid of aging and dying. so the last week of school ends with a big question mark and the pink death of flowers all over campus. too tired to feel anything, i just want to sink into sleep with the promise of rain, and drain all this coffee from my body.