"Those who have Malaka, hold Venice by the throat."

Can't recall which gent spouted that... apparently too true at the time.

Thirty-seven thousand feet we climbed above the smog & turbulence - up here is clear & in this open-air lounge, clouds hang in frozen swoop, dangle tendrils & trail whisps. I suck at salted plums & await in-flight angels to deliver ice-tea. Tiny atolls below host brush-flick fingernail sand strips.

Dylan, Drake, Jansch & Renbourn amongst others keep good company. After near a week in Malaysia I'm more than ready to slip back into the sea. A supposed seven hour stop-over morphed into a 5 day dust devil whirling me through southern provinces, palm oil plantation homesteads, magnicicent mosques calling to the faithful for their five-times daily devotions... I kicked dirt down suburban Muar streets & ignited brown clouds in the steaming gutters & eaves of houses, drew eyes from those with them - I saw no other westerner in these parts.

Loose connectors surge the breakers, burstin filaments of chance; combusting into maelstroms of wavering improbabilities. I was pedestrian & he amidst a motor - I'd halted a young girl in uniform for more mobile options but her tongue tied & got twisted giving me no more than a shrug of shoulders - overhearing or something more magnetic dealt the next hand.

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