Sweet tunes pour out the many tiny pores in the metal's surface. While listening intently to meaningful lyrics sung in harmony by the two vocalists, my fingers, barely blistered and hence concealing the fact that they are sore from writing all day, are only just able to fly across the different panels, marked with letters, numbers or symbols. Applying pressure, I witness the formation of pixel after pixel, letter after letter, word after word, as I gulp and feel a soreness in my throat -- it is not dry, but it seems like everytime I exhale I can feel the arid atmosphere of the Sahara escaping my larynx. Flimsy magazines are strewn across the wooden table to my left and right; meanwhile wires criss-cross each other like the beelines often witnessed as students queue for their meals, but at least there is no buzz. I lazily finish off the last sentence, and as I hit enter, a little white pop-up at the bottom of the screen lights up, accompanied solely by a barely audible 'ping'. I glance at it, see "Miyami | When..."


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