I could write about scenes from Singapore, about the dried flowers on the pavement being stirred up into a vortex about me, about the crowds of pleasantly Singaporean people, of singlets, shorts and flipflops. Or I could seeth at me and how selfishly I work these days. I've honed my manipulating myself into an art. I know exactly how I react. I feel as if I could cultivate reactions, trim the ones I don't like and grow the ones I do. Something of spontaneity is lost. I was telling someone about this and they said, "Ah, you're growing up." But it's not as if I do it for the better, just for the better for me. At forty I may be a beautifully balanced personality but I'd be cold as a fish.
Or I could be overreacting. Spontaneous things are usually combustions, explosions, collapses. Negative sudden and irreversible things. And what's so wrong with being cold blooded. I rather admire some of the extinct cold blooded marine creatures
Ha, if only. I'll continue to be me for a whole lot longer. At any rate, it's going to take me all the way till forty to be a lovely 'little' liopleurodon. Looking forward to it, arrrrrr. I lovvvvvvvvvvvve lios. I admit it. I just wanted to compare me to one. I want to be one. Ah time, space and biology.
