The umbrella.

That old witch. 

With a door between us. Her son standing by her side. 

Her cackled sharp-pitch voice.

That long long corridor.

The scent of a Singapore morning.

The jab. 

This scene kept looping in my mind last night like a scratched disc, jamming on one point and couldnt play on. 

Its easier to hate than to forgive. But its tired and lonely, which is why I'm not hating anyone, and at the same time, not forgiving.