She sat afar from him, and all that could be heard from him from that distance was nothing. His body was pulsing to her, and all that could be said to her from that distance was nothing. Nothing, not even a whisper, and so all that pierced through that empty room was nothing but the hum of the wind as it froze those tears that splattered on his sockets
. \His hands were numb from the breeze, and he thought,The Only Thing That Should Be Nothing Is That Distance, and not his hands, not his feet, not his voice and no, oh no, not those tears that flow from his breasts to the glimpse of her awkward laughs, to the liltle gulps she took as she swallowed his liltle jokes, to the blush of her cheeks that she radiates as she smiled and smiled to his eyes that saw nothing now but the swing of her hair admist the rain that drenched his lids.
He sat there and all he saw was those lips that she bit when she was tried hiding a giggle from him, those brows that she knit when she tried unconvincingly to brush off his teases and those cheeks that stretched a smirk out of thos lips and those brows when she tried and tried to cover her weeps. He sat there and all he saw was that face that was attached to those lips and cheeks and brows and his breast as she turned back to give him a gentle smile.
He sat there stretching his lips, giving off a sham of a smirk as he replied to her and that face that crashes into him again and again and again He sat on that sturdy plastic chair, his arms folded to shield against the slithers of the gush that had carressed her neck and her eyes and her cheeks and her brows and the moments that have been before him, and all that could be was that distance that was nothing.

He gazed longingly at her as she meltinto her hair. It was snaking wildly along her neck,he noticed, and it poured from the tip of her crown to the center of his heart.
He was a touch away from her arms, oh her sweet, soft, delicate arms, and here he was, broken, shattered by those fragile eyes that stared and stared at him,asking why he was that close to her, close enough to hear his breath throbbing. And all he could say was nothing, and nothing conveys nothing more than that rigid frame being distant and awkward, and no, oh no, that wasnt what he wanted to say.
He wanted to shout, no, he wanted to scream, no, he wanted to scream and shout and dance and sing as he wanted to do anything to bridge that gap that stopped him from being her and from her being him. He wanted to move towards her and grab those hands that were attached to those dainty arms and answer those curious eyes. He wanted to breach those dark threads that hid more of her from him, and as he did with his fingers they would carress his digits as smoothly as her stabs were to his heart. He wanted to nestle his now strict, sturdy frame against her soft form, supporting her as she flexes as she curls as she thrusts those hands, those arms, those legs and those lips upon it. He wanted more than those heavy puffs upon her back, no he needed more as he needed to live and to live was to be her and her to be him.
And yet here he was, continuing being stiff while she continued her gaze. She continued her stabs and he continued being dead. Amongst the wheeze of the air con ducts and the heavy gleam of the room, there they were, her face, turned, raised towards his and his stooped towards hers as they glared incessantly at each other over her right shoulder, a touch away from each other
.She had always seemd weary as he slid behind her, over her as his shadow ate up hers. She had always wondered why, oh why, did he slowly make his way up her neck. His lungs huffed a breeze that furled from the sloop of her shoulders to the tip of her head. She wanted to know more because she needed to know more about him, about those wooden arms that were a touch away and those eyes, oh those mysterious eyes, that gazed at her with a slight quiver and a gentle spark.
She kept on peering, trying to peel through that skin to that flesh that was pulsing to her bare. She went on and on till a breach in that corpse appeard as her hair flew to the wisps of his breaths. his glares were filled with the tears from his chest,she noticed, and they poured out from the tip of his lids to the center of her heart.

His face hung so low his neck dissapeared behind his jaw and cheeks. His stares were lost on the ground, his gait was so heavy and his steps were so soft he barely walked, as all he saw with those eyes on the cold, concrete floor, and all that were seen on that face which lost its neck to its jaw and cheeks, were worries and more worries. He lost himself in his misery and his misery was always 'too much', as all work and no play had made Rons a very sad boy.He had taken a peek at his schedule and what he saw made him bluer than blue. He had 5 days left, 5 days of play left, but here he was, rigid as a stone, while his friends were running about in the courtyard, their skin glowed under the afternoon sun,chasing and kicking a ball around. They shouted at each other and howled at the sun like it was the moon. Yes,they were crazy, he thought, but they were having fun, he moaned. He was as cold as steel while they were as hot as coal, and while they were sprinting from one end to the other, here he was, erect as the pillar next to him, under the shade, taking in the soft breeze to calm his bludgeoned mind.What was everything was those five days. What will be nothing was those five days as he knew they would pass by while he agonized at each second ruined. His friends just ran and ran after a ball till a stray stab punctures it.He wanted to get in it with them, butAll he could do was look, as he was too afraid to move his legs, fearing they might crack and thus forcing him to spend the rest of those days with a cast as hard and strict as his spine now was.There they were, zipping around, shoving each other and not giving a care in the world; to them, they owned the world even though it was really the other way around. He wanted such freedom, he wanted to taste it and he wanted to break these chains that were attached in his head. He wanted to be them, even though he may split a couple of bones or spill a pool of blood. He wanted to live. All for a ball and a ball for all. That was how they think, that was all they think, he thought. That was how it should be, and all those burdens, every single one of them, would flutter away with the wind that was against his face as he chased and chased after the only two things that mattered, the ball and the goal of scoring a goal.He wanted to be but he couldnt. He had shoulders and shoulders were made to carry, backs were made to bend and brains were made to think and worry and worry about things more important than a ball and the goal of scoring a goal. He has a name and it is Rons, and Rons means responsibility in his and his friends' and the worlds' language, it means taking your load till you loose yourself in your misery. You care so much, it was 'too much'. It means all work and no play for a very sad boy longing for joy as his holiday was up in 5 days

When you saw your shadow being eaten by a larger one and when you felt, on your skin, a damp chill rolling on it you took a look up expecting to see rain clouds hovering over. And when you did you knew instantly you need to find shelter, as you wouldnt be able to beat the drench, no matter how fast you ran.You knew you were going to be There longer than the sun was. Yet, you parked your car far from the horizon, at a distance it required not a run but a marathon to reach. When the seasons deluge came suddenly, you are helpless. You have to wait it out.And while you are doing exactly that, you could do nothing else except to stare at the threads of water falling and to put your head in your hands and contemplate what a bore things are. To past the time you wondered when would this storm end. As your noggin floated the ground sank even further, as the rain, just like your stares, wasnt getting any lighter. But the dullness died quickly. What was worst than the drench was the darkness. You had stayed there longer than the sun was, and now the only company you have left is the night. And what a friend it was. It crept under your skin and made your muscles twitch rabidly. It dug into your skull and made your mind flick rapidly. You were frightened of everything, even of nothing as the grave's silence without filled you within with a heavy terror. You were afraid of every beat you hear as you thought you heard a whisper, and of every glimmer you see as you thought you saw the whisperer.And the whisperer came, in your thoughts, with a sharp grin and an even sharper knife, waiting for you and waiting on you for the right moment,the instance when your nerves are pressed, to press it on your veins. You tried to hush such images out by talking to the rain, asking it to come another day, and yet you couldnt deny the whisperer from breathing the air beside your neck, from illuminating a devious Chersire smile from the distant gloom and from noticing you are there, all alone,by and at the mercy of the Night and all its tenants that hunt in its sight.You need to get back. You need to get going. You need to get running. Screw the liquid, its just H20. Whats the worst that could go wrong. Your body would smell. You might get a cold. But at least your body wouldnt smell because it had been rotting in some drain,at least you wouldnt turn so cold because the vibrant red which previously coloured you had been spilt, at least you could reach home in one piece and not in the pieces carved from a blood soaked edge by a blood thirst man.And so you went off. When you saw your shadow eaten up by a larger one and when you felt, on your skin, a damp chill rolling on it you took a look behind expecting to see a Stranger hovering over. And when you did you knew instantly you need to find shelter, as you wouldnt be able to beat the Wretched,no matter how hard you punch, and so you ran

Viks was up because he couldnt sleep,so he decided to move to the living room to watch tv. He staggered out from his bed with a pair of swollen eyes,blakened sockets, a stiff back and a rigid neck,looking unlike the undead as he embraced their time of day. Viks got the shivers as the living room was dead and the night was alive.As he tiptoed down the wooden stairs, Viks hoped he was the only creature up although he feared the loneliness,as when all you could see are your hands and feet you are terrorised by the slightest bump, the stealthiest thump and the simplest caress on those limbs that connect you them.But Viks was a brave young boy who didnt buy into such irrational jerks.He soon shook it all out, telling to himself it was just crickets and dripping taps. He went on with a gallant look as he stared into the empty room, wanting to stare down monsters. He murmured "I am not a liltle boy anymore" over and over again for he believed this words were monster kryptonite,that, once hummed, would place a spell which spelled "MONSTERS DONT EXIST!" on the murky, silet room. He wanted teevee and teevee he would get danger or no danger. Viks was a brave young boy who didnt buy into such unreasonable inputs, and so he jaunt his way in, chests risen,from the last step of stairs to the living room.He turned the television on when he found the remote,and what he saw in it was a skinny liltle kid, bobbling his way back to bed, tired from watching tv.Suddenly a shriek was heard,the screen turned blank. His throat took a lump and his stomach slammed into his lungs, Viks was shaken and stirred as he realised who he was. Who he was was that skinny liltle kid who in an instant fell victim to what laid ahead.What lays ahead? he squirmed and shuddered discomfortly in the chair, with cushions and pillows wrapped all around him. He wriggled and wriggled all about,he was agitated, he couldnt just stay so he swayed from one armrest to another.He thought he had thought it all out. All there was to do ws to mutter those magic words "I am not a liltle boy anymore" and things would be as fine as things would be on that line. But now, admist the blank screen and the static roar emanating from it, he knew he was wrong. he knew he was wrong even though he still thought it was wrong to be thinking so illogically and to be fluttering so insanely. Viks took on his instincts and found his instincts took him on, thus he was here now smothered to the nose with cushions that were meant to be sat on with your butt and to be laid against your back. He was a knight, a knight with armour plates made from wool and fluff, pulsing to the rhythm of the cold freezing night.Suddenly, a flicker of an image registered on screen, his eyes balooned as large as chicken eggs as the brave liltle boy who was him reappeared in the scene. What lays ahead? it spiralled and spiralled in him before this. Now the spinning stopped, it was time to learn what happened, whether he still was that liltle skinny boy and not a skinny pile of bones. Viks quivered as he sunk deeper and deeper into his tent of cushions, till eventually it submerged his eyes blocking his view of the screen. He was scared, afraid of being a skinny pile of bones and not a skinny liltle boy who was just a skinny pile of bones to any predator which may lurk beyond his hands and feet and so wasnt worth a mea.But Viks needed the truth, he needed to know what happened. So he rose from his covers and glimpsed with a keenness not present since he started being a liltle boy again. He had forgotten his initial fright, he was pumped with curiosity,with a nosiness only possible through a boldness only available in that liltle brave boy who could stare down monsters and who would stray into living rooms chanting "I'm not a liltle boy anymore".What laid ahead was a mouse scattering about searching for the scrapings of the cheeze which that skinny liltle kid ate for supper before he went out of his room to watch tv, and when he was tired he went back to it and screamed a tear so bare it terrified the liltle skinny boy on this side of the screen. The liltle viks in the liltle brave boy this side of the screen was assured. He laughed a loud puff when he saw who he was, a fool the idiot box made fun off. He turned off the tv as he whipped out a joke mocking himself by suggesting it was enough suspense for one night. And so he bobbed of to bed, till a shriek was heard and brave skinny liltle viks found out his brothers registered him for fear factor, home challenge, where he was supposed to swallow a mouse whole for supper.

I was toast under this weather. Everytime I looked at my limbs,which were a golden brown, I thought of King Midas and saw him in the sun. It burned when he touched my skin, and each time he did I glowed and melted a liltle more. It was hot. The sky was a deep blue and the afternoon shine was a bright white and the shadows procreated were as black as night. I knew I had to get out fast before I was charred a black that black, but all I could do was sit thight and wait for the aircond to start. I stabbed the key in,the engine choked and choked till it eventually wheezed a smooth whirl that was followed by a loud static roar from the ducts and I thought I was safe at last. But, alas, I was wrong. I was wrong because this was a Proton, a Malaysian car with Malaysian components with Malaysian quality stamped all over them, and so instead of a soft, cool hush all I got was a scalding jet of air punched onto my face.It was a Malaysian aircond built with a Malaysian weather in it, which made me mad because it made me remember I am a Malaysian, the only nationality which comes with a gurantee that things will fuck up all around you.Things fuck up all around me,and it was exasperating when the door locks shut irregularly, when,from a whisper of air,the alarm beeped loudly, when the windows dont whine shut prefectly, when the seat belts ate into my tummy and when my tummy ate up my body and when my brain didnt snap synapses when it mattered and when my synapses snapped, in a different way, when it mattered. Things fucked up all around me not because I am Malaysian but because I fuck up, because I was a boob and a fool, a fool who only knew the art of eating and sleeping, a boob who only secretes sweat and plaque and saliva and not work when he was working and play when he was playing, who kept on thinking of work during play and play during work till all that were left were guilt and shame and shame and guilt.I stared at this truth, a truth so bare it drenched the crimson flush,coloured by the fumes from the ducts, off my face,till what was left in the rear mirror was a mask so white it shoud be snow.It was a fascade of snow white's after she ate the poison apple and before she kissed the curing lips, a peal so pale it could not bear life. I knew what I am and what I was were guilt and shame and shame and guilt. I ran and ran from the problems admist till I was crippled by them in the end. From there I glared and glared at the rear mirror, till all that were there were a fool and a boob,their crust boiled from a golden brown to a crimson flush by the air cond ducts.

I am a man of few words when I speak. I am a man of whom few words were used when spoken off. And yet, it baffles the mind at the seeming contradiction which exists when I am logged on into the web, where I write and write and write till somebody screams afowl over words typed,or rather the volume of words being typed.And so I would like to address to the common man and his curiousity on this seemingly miraculous transition. A change,so unexpected and so unforseen, that money would fall from the sky and leap into your pockets as they shout "spend me! spend me!" with glee whenever it happened. And what you bought with that cash is your business,although I apprehend them being a suit of body hugging spandex, a collar, a whip and a pair of handcuffs. The common man might question my understanding of nature's science, even though I took and scored that elite distiction that is a low pass in physics,chemistry and bio at school, of why as of yet their hasnt been a gail of running 50ringgit bills gliding down from the stratrosphere. My dear fellow taxpayers, the question is not to do with my understanding of nature's laws, but of my comprehension of economics and even perhaps meteorology,which isnt a science of nature (and so doesnt count) since that ahma across the street could do a better job at predicting rain.I had slipped out of the topic at hand as I giggled with sadistic joy, grasping the idea that whomever that read the previous paragraphs would be overcomed by the merriments of monetary security, only to be dashed of it a few sentences later.Not to worry, for they shall, with a puff of a breath or two, regain what liltle is left of their sanity, and soon would be qualifed for that prestigious fraternity that is Tanjung Rambutan, of which I am in charge of the accounting of its finances.I had skipped out of the topic at hand, and I shall quickly take a bend back to the straight path. Why,oh,why,did these idle fingers jab and jab till ctrl alt tab,being punched twice, seemed to be a good choice of action? Well, with an honest heart I shall devour the contents of my mind, which are just as meriticrious as the contents of my hind. The truth of the matter, and the matter of the truth, is that there is no one single solution, just as there is no one single pollution worst than the stink that resides in both ends of my poles.I molest keyboards because I could, because there is a deeper need than the desire to be slothful, and that is for the inner shout to be heard and to be listened to.And that internal squabble may be about my wobbly figure, as opposed to the vanity that is Bradd Pitt, or the dark impulses that cajoled me to throw acid at him, or the lighter fantasies of being a female's Siren aka a Backstreet Boy which wouldnt 'Quit Playing Games with their Hearts'.I stabbed that rectangular chopper board for the thrill that eludes even spandex and spiked collars. It is a pleasure founded upon your leisure, your willingness to pave the maze that are my articles of thought and feeling.And it is you that give me worth, a worth that wouldnt dispend even after your long patience and persistence finally gave up and broke nto a thousand pieces,that resulted in a thousand shards of aggresive commentaries that started this attempt of an explanation in the first place. I dabbled upon that sad excuse for a typewriter because I wanted to discipline my wavy, uneven skills and my garbled knowledge to produce, to ptoduce something worth a smite and a jibe from the barely-literate. I wanted to curdle blood,to inject tears and to lessen cheeks for a laugh or two, I wanted to procreate the humanity within us that has been monopolised by hong kong soaps and bollywood goods and to realise, to show that it doesnt take a Priyanka Copra or a Louis Khoo or any face of botox to be human, as all that is needed to flush that face red, to cry that eye a river, to press that lips a smile, is the volumnious or economical use of words describing your friend is a whore