i breathe the refreshing cold air as it slides down my throat.

after staring at the computer since 12pm, it's a soothing change.

the computer doesn't allow you much space for creativity. its lines and neat structure is incompatible with the trembling of your hand as it brushes down the page.

and now, out of habit, i press control+s every time my mind gets stuck. it's annoying and breaks the flow of thought. who needs it, in this new world of ideas?

i've been reading alot of confessional poetry today, and getting my thoughts down. i feel so professional, at the desk typing and looking at professional-looking documents and just having the whole day stretch ahead of me.

it helps that i've turned off the vibration in my mobile phone and put it aside. nothing to distract me, and it's almost like being on an island beach with my clear laptop and curing myself, rehabilitating myself, out of this mundane cycle. without actually going anywhere or doing anything spectacular.

yeah. so "The blood jet is poetry,/ there is no stopping it."

Sylvia Plath's world is one that is black and white, and the intrusion of red is combated to its maximum. although whether this intrusion is beneficial or harmful, that's kinda what i'm looking at in my h3 essay.

the seniors' essays are so intimidating. it's like being at the foot of mount everest while having the rare opportunity to see the flags at the top, and the people on their way down from there.

too many words. time for some pictures.