Writing makes my heart sore. Wanting to have written but not having to write. Why why why my well is dry —ing, warning of drought, warning of death. Because it has not been raining. Let my fingers type type type, run across steel in syncopated rhythm, knowing where each shape lies, to take them off the shelves for a recipe I know so well.

My ahma used to say “agak-agak lah,” and that’s how I learnt to cook; so I grab ketters wuthiyt even looking and write on my digital page. Oops, without looking sometimes it turns out wrong. Though I thought I could, now I have to amend. It, was Letters and Without.

I know, I know without letters there are no written words to create meaning — on a page, in a life.

In a live body I write.