right. enough of unrespectable letting-go. it's a melt forthnight for me from tomorrow hence.i really want to run from yishun to bishan park, bask in the nostalgic route of my favourite fourteen years of running around upper thomson, discovering a million different routes in a million runs. how beautiful are the feet of those who daily plod and who weekly push through thirty laps of the froggie, emerging from the transparent waters with shiny shoulders oh that airy hymn from yesteryears of my adolsecence it swims around in my head with random suddenness. i plagued my beloved family with my aria version, the voice pierceing through high and lofty clouds in the chambers and cloisters in my mental faculties. i thought i was one of them singing angels. we tend to think this way before we realise judgment shoots us from the swinging perch. in all aspects. we must continue to live in playgrounds. jump from the swing to the seasaw - don't step on the ground there are crocodiles; swing to the clouds and fling your slippers far; bury the dead turtle at the corner in the sand; also, swing standing up and lie on the sea saw reading, at the slanted angle and read the clouds sometimes.

how do you do these with them rubberised playgrounds? there are no plank swings, no sand, no sea saws. how do people grow up without sea saws i don't understand. and merry-go-rounds. those were quite a treat if you found them.