
*adjusts sunglasses, takes a swig from a slightly warm Singha beer*
Ah, another morning on Maenam Beach. The tide’s doing its lazy ballet, and I’ve got Bukowski’s “Post Office” dogeared beside me. These mornings, they’re not just mornings they’re quiet conversations between the sea and my soul. Last night, I was at Rung’s place again. That woman Achara she doesn’t cook, she conjures memories. Her grilled snapper? It’s not just seafood. It’s a narrative written in salt and chili, each bite telling stories older than my wandering years.