欧宝娱乐

“You yearn to stay in this in-between place, where the beauty of the times you have freshly bade farewell to is still alive and vivid in your mind 鈥� almost real 鈥� and the reality of your new circumstances has yet to fully sink in. You listen to the familiar melodies that had accompanied you on your journey, and allow the music to evoke landscapes and scenes in your mind. The songs caress your sub-consciousness and fill your being with an airy joy. You are both here and elsewhere. Or perhaps you are everywhere and nowhere.”
― Agnes Chew, The Desire for Elsewhere

“If this turns to friendship, it only means
That one of us will suffer.

That when we meet after the worst of endings,
There will only be this skein of words between us鈥�

Most of them for boredom, fewer for loneliness鈥�
Rising out of our mutual space of breath, leaving

Behind a bluer sky each moment of departure.
And one of us will cling on to its blue,

Hung on partings like a muted cloud, while
The other rides on a wing of word away from here.”
― Cyril Wong, Below: Absence: Poems

“She tried to remember all the times she had spoken to him. She replayed every moment she could remember at the beach last week. Not once had she led him to believe that she liked him improperly. And yet, last night, he had appeared as if she had invited him. She had given herself so willingly, so lasciviously, that he must have thought she had desired him all along. Perhaps she had, or perhaps she had not realised how pleasurable intimacy could be.”
― Mahita Vas, Rain Tree

“Moments later, I was climbing nervously into the back of the car. The driver wore the archetypal expression of an antagonist. No words were exchanged beyond the brief lines uttered to this nameless stranger, whose inclinations remained unclear. The car sped along empty roads and traversed dingy alleyways. Music blared from its speakers. I did not remember exhaling throughout the entire journey.”
― Agnes Chew, The Desire for Elsewhere

“Later, you told me what your mother had said. How your father, the farmer, rose up slowly. You told me how your mother wailed on the other end of the phone, grieving her loss and complaining about the basketball of a goitre perched on her shoulder. She told you, your father walked onto the veranda and saw a chook floating ten feet above the ground. The chook didn鈥檛 flap a feather and just sat there brooding, swaying in the breeze.”
― Jon Gresham, We Rose Up Slowly