who sits on a biscuit box along Purvis street drawing your bow of a boyfriend across the strings of your old wooden sister
who sways to concertos of your own recipe like lingerie in the North-east monsoon breeze, Victoria's secret straining against the tough fishing line & garish plastic pegs that keep her a political prisoner as well as a sliver of a sex slave
who hears voices on the carbon monoxide-infested winds from the exhausted pipes of passing SUVs, the frozen fairies within the corrupted whinings of mosquito-bitten, sweat-soaked, pockmarked aunties serving iced beers on rusty trays
who basks in the rustic charm of alleyways stubbornly standing in the way of globalisation's grinning government & refusing to get up even to take a piss, crouching in the intimidating silhouette of an icon of knowledge & lust & steel
who craves for the unleashed fury of the wild music that comes in the form of exuberant trees & blushing blossoms, that is reduced to the minute pipings of the seedlings that sprout uncertainly through lightning bolt cracks in the disintegrating pavement
who loathes the packaging of the chicken rice-with-extra-cucumbers-and-um-no-chicken your haggard mother brings to you at exactly 12:21, begging you to please stop playing & try something more lucrative, like a hobby of neuroscience
who displays almost a hundred sorrowful animals made of oily chicken-flavoured Styrofoam & torn, pathetic petrochemical bags a gruesome shade of red & snapped used chopsticks on your brimming bookshelf, each one crying twin tears drawn on by a black marker, with a puddle of crimson plastic blood pooling at each one's claws or hooves
who looks most beautiful when concentrating in deep heat, glistening divinely in the noonlight with scented sweat, a frown transfixed on each frail eyebrow, lips pursed in an alien syllable that means 'to orgasm'
who trades sacred, maudlin music for anything at all, ranging from the lonely can tabs of a weary, thirsty & heartless voyager to the half-packet of peanut butter m-&-ms from the allergic businessman with a sweet-toothed mistress to the grimy, innocent 50-cent coin of an eager, gap-toothed janitor, & of all these offerings, some you keep with a smile, some you eat with a grin, & others you recycle with a chuckle devoid of malice
who clenches your fists at the sight of local towkays in fancy dress, ang moh bosses in tow, bellowing rude orders in Hokkien at hapless, half-deaf kopitiam owners, confused by the increasingly epic demands of people who want 'a taste of Old Singapore', being difficult in their unorthodox requests for simplicity
who creates a tiny haven of serenity & relief for those within hearing range with your originality, your born-to-be-belligerent notes leaping luxuriously forth and taking furious flight to infiltrate the malleable minds of these uncultured denizens
who writes all your curious & curiouser findings down at the end of the day in a cluttered scrapbook your favourite friend designed for you, complete with poetic musings & disorganized sketches

- negligible fictional force, 6th November 2006
glossary: auntie – local term for woman above 30 years of age; chicken rice – Hainanese chicken rice, a highly celebrated local dish which has a name that speaks for itself, takeaway comes in the form of a Styrofoam box & an ugly red plastic bag; towkays – the Singaporean version of baby boomers, rich, balding middle-aged men; ang moh – local term for Caucasian; Hokkien – one of the many Mandarin dialects spoken in Singapore, kopitiam – food centre serving local food

author's note: yes, my fellow countrymen, the setting is the falsely ageing Purvis street against the new National Library – that disgustingly modern structure made of glass & steel. & if this girl exists, I have never seen her.