I wait for what could have been the longest night of the year.
It doesn't make much of a difference at the equator.
And I scratch, pick skin off the scabs, while I wait for inspiration.
The bookshop is in an old shop house, nestled against a hawker center.
Irony of that quiet corner, that isolation.
I buy a notebook. Moleskine. Clad in plastic. Used by Hemingway, Picasso and Chatwin.
I look at it with hope. Oh, the desperation.
The bookshop owner puts a small packet of punched holes into my bag. Paper snow, a handwritten note says.
"Did you notice he put in a packet of paper snow?"
The thought collates.
A sign, perhaps. Maybe I should put in my papers now.
I think I was much happier when I was discontent.