Breakfast

these days were dull. started off with the engine of my car pierces the silence of morning to the boring dinner under pallid sky. apart from working from 8 to 6 maybe i should consider doing something else to keep me occupied busy and fun. my work life is naked cornflakes without milk and honey glaze. putrajaya bores me to death.

In a box people call car.

i made an attempt to communicate with other drivers when i was stucked in a traffic jam in mrr2 with the rate of an inch every 5 minutes. if you are observant enough people actually do a lot of things in the car especially when we are all rushing to work each morning. while some other drivers stuffed on tuna/egg sandwich commencing the long day, i put on eyeliner and blusher at the traffic light. some was on the phone prolly with their sweethearts whiffing good morning wishes or perhaps with the bosses giving orders "oh what a bad way to kick off the day".

car is a moving solo-karaoke box to me stripping off all the complexities and issues in which i turned into a superstar given any genre from hiphop r&b rock to pop ;sans the fans. could be a moving-party box too when squeezed in are friends in a roadtrip like one trip i had in miami with girlfriends singing down from jay sean. we had a record taped where everyone go wild lip-singing the song in our 4wd in the coastal town.

there was a night when i was on my way from putrajaya to kajang that from the rear-view mirror i could see a couple make love in the car while stopping at a traffic light. the girl was driving while the guy lustfully sucking her sugared nipples, kissing the lips and cheek. i was driving alone listening to jessie j on red and at times like that i wish i'm married i'm no kidding.

things happened in a box people call car.

Flagrant Feb

the first half of february is/was miserable. it's a month needing to be written down. it threw me away like a piece of chocolate given to an anorexic, empty as a shed of snake skin we found on the sidewalk. i am disintegrating into fragments like bubbles drying up on your toilet floor. bitter that it melted my heart into stone. i try not to count the days but the truth is otherwise. i wish i could smoke like a chimney instead of driving with tears falling off my face. i felt like a crumpled paper under the table instantly highschool all over again. you will never understand cause that's what i'm aiming for.

Passenger

in my high heels and my old dress with my new keys and the roses, walking 'round Chicago i have smuggled you as cargo. though you are far away unknowing by the time we get to salt lake i have packed you in my suitcase, iron the creases from my own remembering. i don't know what you smoke or what countries you've been to but i'd like to meet you.

Passenger, i don't know & little bird.

Lisa Hannigan