Odd images from my day-to-day have a way of stacking up and overflowing, becoming usual or even expected so that they inspire neither bemusement nor laughter nor disgust nor fear nor anything but someday I think these observations will feel new again if I can manage to remember them, so here they are, some of them, incomplete and fragmented as they appear to me walking down smoke & spice streets, pushing through iPhone-laden crowds, entering the welcome ice of air-conditioned lobbies, riding escalators to the sad point where stairs feel like an affront: a Buddhist monk wearing business casual on top but the usual red sarong below; a dead cockroach overturned in the gutter, legs weakly waving, as a swarm of minuscule ants carry away bits of him for dinner; men drinking beer with their two large, green, pet parrots perched without tethers in a public square; a corner shop emptied and stripped to the bare concrete walls overnight, yet boldly proclaiming clothing sales the following morning;

to be continued.