Portrait

I am Jun. I keep this notebook from a flat on Petir Road in Bukit Panjang, where the LRT curve above the road is visible from the kitchen if I stand at the right angle.

I write after 22:00 more often than before 07:00. Not because mornings are inferior — they are simply louder. Evenings leave room for commas.

Zhenghua park connector is my usual walk when rain has stopped but the trees still drip. I count bicycle torches and avoid stepping on snails.

I am not a copywriter for hire, not a coach, not a course seller. There is no client page here because there are no clients in this room.

Word Craft is two words about handwork at a desk. The domain ends in .pro and that suffix is never explained on these pages because it does not mean anything here.

I read paperbacks borrowed from friends and return them late with apology notes tucked inside. That habit is the truest biography I can offer.

The lamp on my desk is a plain table lamp with a cloth shade. It lifts the basalt surface by six percent at most — no coloured glow, no neon.

I take photographs badly on purpose with an old phone, then write instead. Build-time textures stand in for the missed shots without pretending to be documentary.

Corrections page lists small human errors — wrong bus numbers, misremembered stall names — because notebooks should show their revisions.

If you write to [email protected], I reply late and in plain language. Quiet hours are real. The counter page has no form by design.

Bukit Panjang taught me to listen to lift shafts and corridor grilles as percussion. I mention that because place shapes voice more than ambition does.

I do not count followers or awards. The metric is whether a sentence still sounds true when read aloud to an empty room.

This portrait sits beside a narrow photo because faces on dark pages need margin, not spotlight.

When I am stuck I boil water twice and call the second boil a permission slip to continue.

If you came from the Chin Swee note, know that piece stays at "/" without a badge. I will not inflate it with labels.

Thank you for reading in a pace that suits you. Close the tab whenever the tea cup empties — the desk will still be here tomorrow.

I borrow library books and return them with receipts as bookmarks. Librarians tolerate me. Friends tolerate worse.

The corridor photo beside this page exists because grilles deserve credit for shaping how wind sounds at Petir.

If you expected a CV, close the tab. If you expected a voice, stay as long as the lamp allows.