I feel like writing something but my mind's blank. Or at least, incoherent. If I become an author one day I'll probably end up publishing a blank book. A piece of postmodern literary genius and a notebook, for the price of one! God, you don't know how much comfort I derive nowadays from just taking refuge from the cold by lying in bed amongst my pillows and listening to my lounge music playlist. I get so many spontaneous fleeting thoughts when I'm bored y'know. Like hey let's walk to Cold Storage, then when I get there I don't know what to do. Or other random stuff that I don't have enough time to implement. I just listened to that subconscious and walked around my yard as if I'm expecting someone and saw Ming Hao's maid walk by. You crazy crazy subconscious you. Weekends are always just too short by one day, like if I had another day to waste and stone around my creative juices will kick in and inspiration will stir like so many goddamned leaves in the wind. I want a camera again. And intellectual books. And that one more day.