July's almost end

A fragment: I remember standing by your window taking in the view. It was evening, warm, the sound of traffic softly bubbling from below. Singapore was spread out, as if waiting, its street lights coming on, inviting, beckoning. And then you came over, standing behind me, looking out into the evening too, waiting, inviting, beckoning. Night then came and went, but only a little too quickly.

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In a few months, I'd be saying this: A glorious decade, mine, is almost coming to an end. And what a decade it has been. And how I wish I had written it all down. A memento for myself. Every word a moment. Every letter a memory.

Half-way through my candidature now. I've to work harder. Keep writing and write some more. And then I'll finish on time. I must finish on time. I want to finish on time. And live a whole new decade, in another new life.

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A friend came to visit, and for three weeks I played tourist and was kept busy. Melbourne was an utterly marvellous host. Salvadore Dali, John Brack, Pompeii, Pinter, the Tokyo Ensemble, the MSO. Then there is the beautiful winter in this city, and how we drank to our hearts' content.

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How many years has it been, since I first heard your voice? Fifteen? Sixteen? When I was a complete stranger to myself? And it is still your voice that I hear, beside me all these time, in which foreign land. Always this voice, gently releasing this divine sadness. Like droplets of nightfall. Like this . . .