It was a metro direction Gein number 50.

Jakarta collapsed in my mind and altered its form into an imaginary. All the past passed through the cells in the head: a night of Soccer closure, the post-Jumat ceria driving to home, ever-crowded commuter line, people in Sudirman, memorable small office in Karang Tengah, tiring working days in the central, and so on, and so forth.

It was an Intercity naar Ede-Wageningen.

Depok came into me as melancholy. I tried to grasp the meaning but failed. It was its residual which I sipped with poetic mind-digging. Then, I missed Bahasa. A kind of magical thing through which I shape and reshape myself: talking with strangers in train, asking people in the cities I had never been, reading old poems.

It was a bus via Hoevestein number 88.

Indonesia blurred like an egg in the pan. It is a puzzle I will never solve: the sea and the mountains, the people and the customs, the cities and the rural, the greats and the shits. And I might be never giving up. Walking into the past, running into the future, and trapped in the now with the knives in the heart. Oh the blood everywhere.

It was Haagsteg after midnight. Everything stopped.

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