I will not go shopping here at night anymore, unless with somebody really reliable or for something worthwhile. Always have this sense of insecurity out at night, instinctively, and am sick of it. Wish that it could end forever. Go, go away. Was not very much delighted in spite of the huge fulfilment, hated to waste one hour on simply getting a cab. Trudged from Marina Square to Esplanade via Temasek Ave and Raffles Avenue, alarmed by the appearance of a gang of youngsters( maybe I was being paranoid). Randomly took a bus and alighted at Beach Road. Felt disturbed by the silence of the night and the lamplight now and then. Finally managed to book a cab. We were going along the highway and looking out of the window on your right you could see the cluster of buildings at Raffles Place staying still. We seemed to be revolving around them without an end, on that long, long road. The flickering lights gave birth to a strong sense of solitariness. Sigh, this night was not enjoyable at all. I just wanted to go home. And SJ was obviously desperate. Poor child. Should have listened to her and taken MRT but backed away anyway because of the hidden nameless fear.

Somehow looking forward to my life in university. It will be simply soothing if I ever go shopping at night again, in Paris, or in London, with Françoise, or the one of my eleven-year-long friend. To peer into the eyes of the grand night.

And today SJ was talking about cycling, and I realized that the days when the bike was our main means of transport, have all gone. So far away from us, no way to be traced. Can't believe that I haven't touch a bike for three years. Three years, as the lyrics of a song say, how many "three years" will one get in his whole course of life? Standing here, looking back, I see the shadows of six Three-Years'. And there are their shadows on my left, on my right, horizontal, vertical. There are countless "Three-Years" written all over the space, out of which only a limited amount belongs to me.

Well, forget it. Back to bikes. Bikes and old times. I can still form in my mind the picture of the street, of the school, of every detail of That Kind Of Life, which used to be mine. Now what's left. An empty street. Empty passers-by. Empty chairs and tables in the empty classroom. Empty laughter echoing baselessly in the empty playground. Empty red and blue colours of the uniform. Empty faces of my teachers. Empty memories.