Never really liked Apples, since most of what I had

were sour, and the taste of Father forcing me

to slice apples for an entire family. He told everyone to

take a slice before they did. If the family could be brought

together by a blood red fruit, surely the peeler that took a

chunk of my skin can tell the pain it took to my Father. I

gave up and ate a couple like Snow White did with hers,

juice running down my arms that I had to go to the bathroom

thrice each apple and I collapsed on the bed, still convinced

that Father was trying to poison me with his teachings.

Scandinavian fixtures and the Space Age interior;

The brushed steel and pale wood will be delivered

tomorrow. Outside, an uncle sweep the ashes from red

altars the point blankness of an aircon light – Their rooms

are dim even in the morning; The primary school child squints

and divines their future. The primary school child might

dream of white teak tables and bleached walls and realize

how empty the visions of people in the past were. Everyone

forgets decor is still delivered by the laborious and not machines,

because machines do not pray for a windfall. Whether tomorrow

comes or not, they will struggle to light joss sticks with the light of smart screens,

decide on whether praying to altars or asking Google is the more efficient approach.

Use LRT tracks as shelter, where the

underside is always dry, a canopy for your

wonder from above and recording stares

in the number of raindrops on tarmac. If

we disappear it still joins the sky, daring

foliage to return being greater than civilization,

and the red chairs of coffeeshops bloom with creepers

creeping and growing and enticing symbiosis since only

we had the chance to marry our creations. A Koel changes

a song to one that no one can imitate but no one is present

either, so it cranes a neck towards summer showers – Towards

the shadows cast from stone Gods that record and

narrate the passing eons in the day; Sundials to the

awe of the living.