2 May 2026
A Window That Keeps Fogging
Fogged bus window on Balestier route
Seat twelve on the left — my preference when the window fogs and the world becomes impressionist without trying.
Each stop adds a new oval of clarity where a finger might draw, though I never draw. I watch the fog reassert itself.
Balestier passes in fragments: shophouse colour, clinic sign, tree that survived road widening.
Inside the bus, phones glow. Outside, condensation maps a territory only I can see from this angle.
The driver announces stops with calm that must be learned. I admire that calm more than speed.
A child counts buses on the opposite lane. The count is wrong and perfect.
Fogging is a metaphor I distrust, so I will not stretch it. I note only the physical fact: warm breath, cool glass, blurred city.
At my stop I step into heat that the bus held at bay. The fog stays on the glass and leaves with the vehicle.
Walking the last stretch I think about observation as a bus passenger — passive, permitted, slightly anonymous.
The memo ends when the window clears at the depot, which is not my concern but imagines itself into the last line.
I write at the landing table with the window open. Fog does not form indoors. Different rules.
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Whampoa evenings smell of coffee from the shop below and rain on the rail.
These memos are written for the margin, not the marketplace.
The river walk and the stairwell tiles appear often because they are honest landmarks.
Whampoa evenings smell of coffee from the shop below and rain on the rail.
These memos are written for the margin, not the marketplace.
The river walk and the stairwell tiles appear often because they are honest landmarks.
Whampoa evenings smell of coffee from the shop below and rain on the rail.
These memos are written for the margin, not the marketplace.
The river walk and the stairwell tiles appear often because they are honest landmarks.
Whampoa evenings smell of coffee from the shop below and rain on the rail.
Whampoa evenings smell of coffee from the shop below and rain on the rail.
These memos are written for the margin, not the marketplace.
The river walk and the stairwell tiles appear often because they are honest landmarks.
Whampoa evenings smell of coffee from the shop below and rain on the rail.
These memos are written for the margin, not the marketplace.
The river walk and the stairwell tiles appear often because they are honest landmarks.