Morning Shelf
Before seven, the shelf is mine — tape labels aligned, drafts stacked, Woodlands still half asleep.
Blue lights near Chin Swee, seen from Woodlands
Void-deck bench before the block wakes
Causeway-side walk on a windy afternoon
Bus along Woodlands Avenue 7
Before seven, the flat belongs to small tasks: boiling water, checking the tape drawer, reading yesterday's draft in a whisper so the sleeping block stays sleeping.
Woodlands wakes in layers — first the birds, then the cleaners, then the buses hissing at the curb. I align labels while the sky turns from navy to pale grey.
The shelf holds three kinds of tape: masking for temporary thoughts, matte for drafts I might publish, clear for things that already belong to memory. The distinction is emotional, not technical.
If you are reading this early, welcome. If you are reading at midnight, imagine the opposite light and carry on.