Flight of the Lights

2354 is the last train to Pasir Ris. I want to miss it but the moment I step on board I am whisked away like an ant in an emptying sink. The train launches herself out of the station and disappears into the kaleidoscope of the fluorescent and incandescent. Night is the swathe of black that is the canvas on which light is life. Oh how they soar all about us in the lightness of hyperspeed. They all seem like headless folk rushing headlong but then it is they that is stationery and I that is hurtling.

I crushed a cockroach with my boots not because I had to but because I wanted to. I wanted to know how the power to kill so callously would feel like. Its little consciousness oozed out of its shattered and battered shell into nothingness. I felt it go under the hard rubber of my boot heels.

0520 is the first train to Joo Koon. Sobriety is the burnt wisp of a tasteless, stubbed cigarette. Those white fluorescents of the carriage are a firing squad of dry interrogation lights on the crimson wetness of sight. I have in my wretched hands the morning paper – her words are of a foreign land, an alien world.

My heels reek of the stench of a dead cockroach. It is a stench that intrudes into her brain.



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