(Most of this, I have taken from my writings in my journal) It is a curious thing to live in this city, where everyone tells you that you have everything - yet you feel you have absolutely nothing. I am tired of this claustrophobic city, where buildings speak in their secret languages of concrete and stone. Each of them vie to be the grandest and tallest of them all. Some afternoons, they bask in the reflected glories of all the companies that dwell within them. Whilst, I watch the humbler shophouses (circa 1920s) bow low beneath, their humble facades dwarfed by their shadows. One cannot walk her streets without feeling it sinking with each step you take - for it is sinking with dank morality; I am a prostitute and a nazi like everyone else. At her train station, like clockwork, faceless people throng the already crowded train station. (What is your destination silent traveller?) Some walk in Andante, a leisurely gait in their leftover weekend shorts, I suppose their breeze through life the same way they breeze through the barriers. Then there are those, that have managed a hybrid of running and walking. Their shoes are unhappy; for their protest in a loud cacophony of clip clop bam bam sounds - If I imagine myself to be their shoes, I'd be very angsty and unhappy would try to shrink and wear out faster on purpose. I stand by the station for a while, and watch all the people pass me by. I think about my life. (there are days where I look into the mirror and she asks me, why do you care so much? who's gonna save your soul now?. I reply - If I go to hell, so be it. If I drift in limbo, I hope to meet Plato. ) I feel secretly empty, for I do not know the language of the faceless people. I start walking away because I realize they outnumber me by the hundreds, if not thousands.