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泼出去的水, 回不来了










What don’t you understand?

Let me rephrase that.

What do you understand?

Everything under the roof of the school, no doubt.

Do you know what hell is?

Do you know what silence is?

Do you know what greed is?

Do you know what evil is?

Do you know anything?

Do you?

Now draw me a picturesque retort with your embellishing pen.

I’m not your competition.

I don’t want to be anyone’s competition.

Please look elsewhere; what you’ve lost, you won’t find it here.

So I’m out of ER, out of 613 North Tower, back home where I . . . belong?

Missed out all the fun at school. I know you miss me too, hehe. . .well, maybe not *facepalms*

Hole the size of a good Sharpie poke on right hand, stupid IV tube. Hurts when you raise it. Hurts even more when you don’t.

Pretty much back to normal, ate a little bit more than yesterday, now that sugar’s back in the diet =DD, and did not puke like a beast.

Strange, how for some reason, everything looks sharper, sounds like Surround, and smells stronger (this one is not good). Must be the Spidey senses tingling, so to speak.

Chem is OVER AND OUT. A few more things to clear up and summer’s all set.

Fingers crossed for next year. Hope all goes well. And by well, I mean no more missing finals, no more IVing for 48 hours straight, no more of all . . . all this.

That’s all I can do for now.

Back to sleep.


Wisps of gently spiraling, tornado-shaped smoke rings, materializing out of the end of her mother’s stub of a cigarette, merging with what drifted upwards from the laden ashtray, unfolding and refolding themselves lazily in the chill of the evening air. She coughed in protest, and hastily took a gulp of her strawberry-and-watermelon smoothie.

Across from her and her mother, Karenin was polishing off the last morsels of his coffee tiramisu. She watched the progress of the fingers,  from the edge of the starchy white lace tablecloth to the phosphorescently gleaming cutlery; tracing the path of his fork from the ornate dessert plate to his barely ajar lips. A miniscule crumb rolled off the large chunk, and clung to his bottom lip like an accidentally-on-purpose mole. She opened her mouth to tell him, but at this moment an untimely ray of evening sunlight glided over her eyes, so she was forced to throw up her arm to ward it off.

Mrs. Ko leaned back luxuriously in the chaise italienne, casting most of her face in shadow. “Ichiro, Maito, oishi?” She ground out what’s left of her cigarette in a corner of the silver ashtray.

Kaleda reddened as the elderly gentleman with the salt-and-pepper hair at the next table raised his eyebrows inquisitively. “Mom! Speak English!”

Her mother smiled thinly. “What’s wrong with Japanese, Maito-chan?”

She grimaced. “Well…well, people are looking.”

Indignantly, Mrs. Ko turned to Karenin. “Ichiro. You tell me, is it a crime now to speak in Japanese?”

Karenin looked taken aback. “No, of course not, Mom.” He darted a sly glance at Kaleda. “Just because Maito-chan doesn’t understand. . . . . .”

June 2009
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