I was watching an anime series with a roommate after a restless day until his mother called him. He answered the phone. Happily.

We possessed the rare ability to absorb and re-enact behaviours. And sometimes not. I learned that he arrange shoes on an hour basis because his mother did the same. He practiced active silence because his father potrays such behaviour. And like any other malays, he will scower to his room just maghrib and will only come out of it after Isyak.

Parents are the map of their childern

My other roommate is obsessed with anything electronic and is a desperate technology freak but his father is an old-fashion man. But he blinks manically like his mother.

As I approached adulthood, more and more mistakes of my parents became apparent. More and more of them materalized. Deep psychological trauma, ignition of dramatic retribution, childhood tremors. Like a silk that floats on a bubble of sea water. That soaks mysteries and agendas. That hides a piece of a destroyed village. And when the waves crash onto the ocean, there will the silk be, stranded and wet. Stranded and wet. But beautiful to look at. Beautiful to the eyes of the beholder. Below the moulds of clouds. Like a substandard mattress.

A speck of cream if you don't mind, all the entries are semi-fictional. A

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