RIPPED OPEN BY FUNK.

While sipping watermelon juice, I think of Galt MacDermot. His music is funky, jazzy, so good that it moves you. I can imagine myself dancing to those beats, holding my glass of wine while others are watching.

Ripped Open by Metal Explosion.
Coffee Cold.
Bedroom.
Let The Sunshine in.
Harlem Medley.

Those are playing in my bedroom.
Six ice cubes are melting in my glass.

'You gotta let, let the sun shine,
You gotta let, oh, let the sun shine.'

For whatever happens, life goes on anyway. Why not enjoy it then? Live the best of it while we still can. I feel like I can die anytime and wouldn't regret one bit of my life. I know with certainty and sincerity that I've lived this life as dearly as I could.

I haven't skated for two weeks but been cycling hard. Six equally-sized ice cubes are still melting in my glass. Bedroom is playing. This kind of tune funks you up. Galt MacDermot is being brought back.

In Flagranti is on. Lockers Keys for Tops is the kind of music I'll play at my show. Three cubes gone. They now melt in my mouth. One more slurp and the others will have the same destiny. I can see well the separation of the juice and the water came from the ice. We're close to the end.

You're My Chocolate by Savages is on. Pay attention to the guitar. Crisp. It catches you, doesn't it? Though it's the low tune that hooks me. This track is still too good to be true. Every time it hits low, think of me.

Les Pensées by The Architect is playing. Funny, I always think my love would either write or build something.

'You gotta move,
You gotta move
You gotta move child
You got to move
You maybe high, you maybe low
You maybe rich child
You maybe poor.'

Isn't it good? Say 'good' crisply. That's how you compliment someone. 'For your hard-working, sleepless nights, messed up emotions and long-term depression, I say, good.' If it means something, it'll mean something. Honesty doesn't require details. The shorter the compliment, the better. The harsher the critics, the more fascinating. Although fascination should not have any levels.

Dance with me. I may be out of drinks and smokes. But this kind of music will stay.

COFFEE COLD BY GALT MACDERMOT.

This morning is coated with frozen breaths and rain. It rains differently in a tropical country. What a pity letting our shoes dip into the density of inconvenience. This kind of weather makes me long for noodles, any kind at all. Chewy dough, hard-boiled egg, tender meat, spicy soup, delightful veges. Those remind me of Motosan-Uber. I'm probably one of the few ones who give them compliments for the ramen. As artificial as it tastes, it's my ritual after hot chocolate or Earl Grey. It's my second stop after going for a walk, my second round for my stomach. And it actually rhymes.

I miss my unfinished paintings. I want to hug each of them and say I'm sorry for leaving them undone for so long. The colors, the paper, the smell of unfinished work. It cuts me. If the crayons and pencils had a brain, they would realize how terrible I am and rush to the door immediately. Even the paintings on the wall would break the frames and run away. My cats would help them run faster. The squeeky birds would stand next to the windows and sing bravo. Many things will happen in the ironic calculation of God to finally lead to the explosion of one big failure. Suddenly I'm well-known for no reason.