你是我的诗篇, 读你千遍也不厌倦

So huge surprise, I love artsy, coherent people who somehow, in their own unpretentiousness, exude this fabulous (!) aura of being the Great Queen (like, not the female one) of Language. I love it, how they construct beautiful passages with all their throwaway metaphors, how, like protein sequencing, they link up such simple, unassuming words and arrange them in such a way that it grabs you and slams you against some imaginary wall, leaving you astounded by the sheer brilliance. I love it, and I want to be just like them. Though that probably means I shall have to read not only Murakimi (who at least amused me), but 2935830 other authors with unpronounceable names and works which shall make me want to bang my head against a concrete wall.

I would like to watch:

Solos
Happy Endings: Asian Boys Vol. 3
Stranger Than Fiction

Hey, support local theatre, local gay theatre, and er, semi-art house movies that shall make you weep over the little universes in your head!

I would like to read:

SQ21
Cyril Wong
Alfian Sa’at

I mean, hey, local gay literature! Hooray. And I have great love for Cyril Wong poems, even though he did disillusion me so with his Baby Socks story. But it's just like how some people are brilliant in prose but can't compose poetry to save their lives. Unlike some people, who are perfect in everything they do. Though that's really another issue which brings great pain, so.

Song of the day:

读你千遍也不厌倦,
读你的感觉像三月,
浪漫的季节, 醉人的诗篇

I wish there was someone really like that. Like the most perfect piece of written art. And it'd have a new chapter written everyday, just for me. Sometimes in CAPSLOCK OMG, sometimes without capital letters, sometimes in rhyming poetry, sometimes with really bad metaphors. It'll read like a very cheesy romantic novel, it'll read like literature, it'll read like pseudo-academia shit, it'll read like porn. But it's all just for me. My favourite book that never ends. And I shall never bear to fold its pages, or do as much as tarnish it with my imperfect handwriting by writing my name. Still, somehow, I shall inevitably manage to spill biscuit crumbs all over it, leave chocolate fingerprints on the index, orange juice stains along the margin.

But there you'll sit, untarnished, in all your bookish glory, on my very top shelf. So far, yet so, so near. You'll be my favourite book; everyday, increasing exponentially in content, never widening in girth.