风，吹不动风铃，今夜雨声不相伴，本意欲听雨声吵，不吵更不静。日恨春雨来的早，夜卷夜长思绪多，坐待丑时；恨睡意敌不过心情。

笔，写不出书信，独对电脑打律句，千言万语话不清，断句的心境。幼时常说好学好：红尘如烟不惜要；手伸出去，才发觉自己捉不到。

between breezes
everything is still
and a little warm, even,
just warm enough for mum to walk through the streets
feeling cooled by the air
familiar, yet strange.
this is her forth trip, i think -
it's been so many years since i started going on my own trips and
we stopped traveling together.
the last trip we went on together must have been China.
Five of us. That was before sister got married
and we were still living in the same house.
Eighteen years I was in the house,
(we moved there when I was twelve,)
now that I've moved out, 
I learnt that it's called the "Real House" over here -
the house of one's parents. Indeed, life back then
seemed so real, yet,
here,
now,
"Real" seems like a passing breeze
A motion, even just an idea
     that i trade
for something similarly transient, until
I have nothing left and trade myself in, I guess.
It's strange, how it feels to be living so far away -
But this is what most of my relatives do -
I see it as a rite of passage, though
nothing now seems "right" or "wrong".
Everything just seems so far away -
The breeze that used to cool me in the tropical sun,
And the breeze that i hope will come and cool me through the grilling summer
but for now,
between breezes,
everything is still.
The world outside must still be running.
The new flu, must be causing quite a stir,
but for now,
just let me let everything be a little far away
while i hide for a little while
and pull myself together.