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I like a glass of red wine with some dark chocolate. It rains now. I've felt rather frustrated (yes, again). I feel as if this blog needs a title. Something like, 'Lounge blog' or 'Alcoholic blog' maybe. Apparently they wouldn't give me such option. I guess I can't really complain as that absence of option was the very reason I chose this place. I listen to Brahms now. Richter is playing piano. I feel warm because the heater is on. I take off my firm-provided vest. The wine is doing its part in keeping me warm. Richter is doing his own bit too, may he rest in peace. I whined a lot today. Like that guy in Haruki's novel, I am finding this solitude very comforting as it is my refuge in this unsatisfactory real life of mine. I think I've poured a little too much wine. I thought I might as well empty the bottle as it was about to be emptied. It's not easy taking things in moderation, eh? Then again, sometimes I regret that I took things in moderation. Life in excess is cool and I've always wanted it. But I haven't been too successful in that regard. I do my best. I do my best to keep me warm, satisfied. I suspect that is the very reason I am frustrated for the most of time. But, oh, well.


It has hit 10pm now. I guess I should go to bed within an hour or so. There's cello sound from the Brahms now. I feel slightly lonely. Why so much change of emotion so abrubtly? I don't know. Must be a wrong composite of chemicals in my brain. Or else. Come to think of it, I haven't done any exercise today. I think I've walked less than 500m in total. Definitely not good. When my shoulder goes lame next week, I should stroll around a bit. The area isn't so interesting as say Hong Kong or New York or Tokyo or London, but who knows maybe I'll be able to find a little wild flowery garden somewhere. Or there's water always nearby. It will be cold but I should try to move my body as much as possible. Oh how I wish I was away, far away, float like a bird in the distant air. I wonder if those birds do really go where they want to go to. Or is it the air that takes them, an armful load of birds, flying birds.

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