We chose the platter, with thick focaccia accompanying the sliced chorizo sausages and spicy braised pork (kong bak). The soups earlier – shiitake fennel and potato bacon – were savoury and soft to the palate. With a salad of Chinese chicken and icy blends of watermelon and lychee, our corner was filled and senses sated.
There is much to pen down, but little will to gather all the thoughts that stray from sight to synapse. I crave the satisfaction but all too often, the weight of it all wraps a tight grip that silences the mental mouth. And of all the things that matter, writing for myself, and by extension, for and of you, is still the hardest. I am still far too withdrawn, somewhat too damaged, too unruly in mind and fearfully distrustful, not of you but of almost all else, to render myself open and offenceless. A patchwork lies ahead – I only hope not to tread only and always on the dark parts. But at least I can start, in a little way, to write to you.
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