My brother stands by my door telling me how I seem like someone who borrows words in bits and pieces and puts them all together. I could say it's true, not factual.
These city rains remind me of the pensive Nox-bestowed Hong Kong lights and my Wills Lights. Draping themselves in the coldness around, sinking together by the lamp-posts. The shadow of my body from incandescent lamps upon the ground, and several flights to drier grounds. (The rains are always in love with earthy entities.) Like the drenched cigarette in my pocket and my hasty attempts to run over to the Noodle Store's lone sodium lamp. Such monotony. Such mood. I'm almost in the same slow-mo, letting these smoke rings fill the roof.
These words remind me of S's. He mentioned on several occasions that adjectives need to be avoided; done away to say the least. My writing wreaked of it, probably. I knew they were getting excessive on the head and the page. But, to strange nights, what would emptiness mean without the root descriptive, empty?
The void seems heavy in bland sentences. Tireless and unwinding. Perhaps why S could not conform to his notion.
I'm suddenly taken back to the high-walled buildings I had been to. Even imagining sipping green tea near the venetian blinds of one of those floors as the evening sky rains. Dusk in all its wrung romanticism. A silent overwhelm.
Qualifiers help. Emptying out the baggage; detoxifying thought. I'm now left with experience alone, in an asylum and a B&H stick. Sans humidity.