Sickness lingers, I take stock – by counting back on toes and fingers I surmise it's from Bangkok. Sitting now, behind my face, in sinuses that fill that place, is something my body don't want, something to leave me pale and gaunt and helplessly just lying there while nurses tend and doctors stare. I'll stop counting, take that route, see what the fuss is all about, with living now, here, this, today, and not flushing my time away, with chase or worry, debt or toil, I'll leave for a foreign soil where long my soul's been bound to be, oh I miss my fair Bali.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
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