Stood at the studio window peeling a ponkan orange from the fruit stall on South Bridge Road. Juice on my thumb. Below, a tour group photographed the shophouse opposite while the resident cat watched with professional indifference.
The peel came off in one long strip — a small satisfaction I refuse to outgrow. My mother taught me to judge fruit by weight and smell, not appearance. This one was heavy for its size, slightly soft at the stem.
Nothing profound happened. That is the point. Profundity is overrated when attention is available. The orange was sweet, slightly tart, exactly what the afternoon required.
A man on a ladder adjusted a lantern string for a shop that would not open for two more hours. A delivery bike crossed the frame. The city performed maintenance on itself while I ate standing up, which my mother would also disapprove of, gently.
I saved the peel on a saucer because the room smelled like citrus for the rest of the hour, and that felt like enough of a record. Later the peel dried and curled. I threw it away without ceremony.
Some entries exist to prove you were present — not productive, not enlightened, just present. This is one of those.