Life is full of inescapable melancholy, twisting and tortured between the happy moments too fleeting to grip and lamenting periods too perpetual to shun.

I do not know whether or not the beauteous things that heaven bears only linger in the non-existed world beyond my reach, or perhaps, the transcendence triggers all the longing and regret from me. Once I hold, I lose it, for it continuously extends to my farthest reach of horizon and penetrates, like the quicksand, through my fingers. They say love is undying, at least in the writing of Love in the Time of Cholera.

I clearly remember the gloomy afternoons stuffing in the suffocating tiny classroom where 20 students were whipped and scolded and condemned by Bob Riggle. He assigned us to read masterpieces ranging from Marques to Rushdie. No answers could satisfy or pacify his angst against our stupidity and ignorance. His life, even with dual Ph.Ds from Harvard and Oxford, was scattered by the fragments in the minds of his disciples. He has a platonic wife that he never met for nine years, and he combed a hippies hair, and he was doomed to go to hell. But, I do think he wished his destiny to be so, for he has known that for sure life, or living, is nothing but sheer suffering in the sweltering hell.

Years later, I am right sitting in my cubic jotting words on my keyboard with a Marlboro unlit in my lips, having read few chapters of Marques. The air is dirty with the murmuring of the air-conditioners. I think I am burning with fire. So fuck you my life, and not the other way round!