Photo courtesy of Marissa MacDonald
I have shut myself from tonight’s prime time talk show. If your love that had long expired; now fervently returns to claim the stained canvas and crystal white palette from the store down the street that buys and sells second-hand goods. How come I know all these? Well, I was there with my mother this morning when your lightning shadow turning the sharper left corner heading to where you should come from. The store assistant with dark eye circles was polishing a hexagon bookshelf. I recognised several sets of K-drama soundtracks and K-Pop one hit wonder singles. They were stacked meticulously, waiting for price tagging, or to be ripped deceptively after closing time. At night, a crippled man who owns a 3MM underground studio will seek you in. You will then show him the espionage versus the time-travelling scenes and explain in a language only he could comprehend. But he will sit with his knees popped, dripping saliva at Act V; Scene IV where a sleeping red-haired ingénue shape-shift and disappears into an unknown river.