968.

Endless nights.

967.

A dream: walking on a boulevard.

966.

When would self-preservation kick in?

965.

The depth of terror threatened to overwhelm her mind.

964.

Somehow, dissecting a story like that made it lose its lyrical charm.

963.

Everything had to be black and white; sorted and categorized into steel boxes, labelled accordingly.

962.

The nuances of feeling went unsaid.

961.

Suddenly, because the sky got dark perhaps, she got sad.

960.

Sorry Mdm I cannot identify the ten methods of creating tension in a
text. But I have more than enough as it is.

959.

Sitting in class and letting the words wash over her.

958.

These days, she functioned only in the extreme ends of the spectrum of emotion.

957.

The awful power to hurt.

956.

She panicked. Heart racing, vision growing dark, she broke out in a cold sweat.

955.

Alone today. And. in pieces.

954.

Ninety-seven years old and a fighter.

953.

Tonight, they are both broken-hearted.

952.

There's no mistake about it — she's a scum, through and through.

951.

Suddenly she remembered that she was supposed to be rehearsing her script.

950.

As pink as redhill.

949.

She became obsessed about arranging the money in her wallet.

948.

Something in her died.

947.

Bodies of power and grace.

946.

She spaced out between Outram and Boon Lay.

945.

A bunch of stars were misaligned — totally unfortunate.

944.

She deserved to be alone.

943.

Tears at a funeral; tears in an underpass.

942.

A red moose keychain.

941.

An uneaten spicy chicken puff.

940.

The Practice of Solitude.

939.

Empty bottles: ginseng and luo han chrysanthemum tea.

938.

She sent herself a "hug a dork".

937.

On facebook: a thumbnail of everyone she knew and will know.

936.

Work was comforting in a mundane way.

935.

Hello world.