Chinatown. Sunny. Janaury Ten. Fifteen Eleven Pm.

How did I get to the point where I incessantly narrate everything? As if without these narrations, nothing functions, everything halts. The red menacing lanterns will ceased to wave in humid air if I don't talk about them in my head. Or that the sun will refused to bounce off glass doors and shadows of high noons unable to shift from gravel to gravel if I hadn't paused to appreciate it.

I wonder what I should do now? Never stop wondering before. But if I have stop or in other words, quit narrating existence, will I cease to exist too? Just like the sun, the shadows from the noons and the awfully red lanterns of Chinatown. Like how sharks have to constantly swim to stay afloat.

I should eat. But I detest easting alone. Maybe I should drop in on one of those massage parlors and pay for an afternoon with a hooker. Can I pay her to eat with me instead? If one really look into the psyche of paying for sex, it is really more than the act itself, it is a form of seeking attention. Like committing suicide. Death and sex made good bed partners. It is certainly no mystery if you ask me about my deathwish now.

One single lonely afternoon in the crowd, there are only two gratifications available; retail therapy or prostitutes. Both reap the same effect - to purchase a notion that we matters. Ironically with the very currency that renders us emotionally impotent in the first place. Very soon we all go back to our homes feeling swindled. Why didn't buying stuff and fucking beautiful strangers make us happier or vindicated or complete or different? They should, shouldn't they?

I'm meeting Own to grab a beer in his university in the evening and then to play Counterstrike with Hao in the night. Should I start drinking now, polish off some cocktails; all with ridiculous names and even more ridiculous prices, and proceed to meet Own for more beers? It gives me great joy to imagine playing Counterstrike in such state. I would probably be shooting against the wall in a corner.

The sun is on me. Is it on me because I have think about it now? So, don't define it! Stop giving it meaning. There is no such thing as temperature.

Realising the size of the crowd, I realised that I have gone deaf. I am not making sense of the noises, nor did I feel related to my social environment. It was as if I was dropped into Chinatown.I must narrate to remind myself that I'm somewhere, to make sense of the things I'm seeing. To remind myself that I'm here regardless I like it or not? My existence is parasitic to my acceptance of my loneliness. There is no such thing as loneliness. It's all physics.

The sun found me again, I should move.