Poor excuses
The drive to London passed by in a stunning proliferation of funny-face-shaped clouds.
Two things.
My powerbook has died on me and I'm without an internet access to speak of. (The shockingly poor dialup connection I am currently composing this post from is not an internet access to speak of). Tomorrow night around 10, I'll be staring at the stunning proliferation of funny-face-shaped clouds from above instead, all the way back to Malaysia.
The combination of these factors will result in radio rAchel silence until Monday or Tuesday. Like, ohmygosh.
Secondly, I'm sitting directly under a slanted square of windowed sky, staring up at a canvas of skyblue and fluff white, in a house so near Heathrow that in the time it's taken me to write this, four planes have sailed at varied degrees across the window. Stare at the little windows on the plane and wonder if someone is meeting your gaze.
Till Monday, or Tuesday.