Writing

In a small village, hidden in the folds of a forgotten valley and wrapped like a nest in the branches of a sleeping oak tree, a writer sat in a room that time seemed to have forgotten.

In the twilight between day and dream, the shadowy realm of the rainforest unfolds. Where the celestial plankton gets caught up in the clouds..

On the AP-36 autopista, where thoughts do somersaults and the battery of reason takes its last breath, I steer my vehicle towards the sunset as if in a trance.

In the winding paths of a dream, where time glides on roller skates and logic rests on the green felt of a billiard table, cushions whisper unheard stories.

Improving readability

In a world where locals, out of fear and uncertainty, fight a futile battle against relentless change..

In a world where gravity is a non-binding proposition and the sky shimmers in layers of lavender and neon pink, a DJ plays beats that only the flamingos can understand.

In Tanjong Pagar’s confused meanderings, a thought glides like a slalom runner through the path of foolishness.

In the government quarter, where neighbors whisper like leaves in the wind, a question hovers in the air: “Can machines think?”

In a confused stream of thought, moving like a pendulum between reality and fiction, notes fluttered on the walls of the cabinet of curiosities.