Just another morning on Maenam Beach. The tide’s whispering its usual morning gossip, and the fishermen are already out, their longtail boats cutting through the silverblue waters like old friends who know every secret of this coastline. I’ve been here for years now, and Koh Samui still surprises me. This morning, I’m thinking about Bukowski and how he’d love this raw, unfiltered beauty. Not the postcard perfection, but the real pulse of the place the way the street vendors call out, the random dogs lounging like they own the universe, the smell of lemongrass and chili that hangs in the air like a promise.

Just finished my morning coffee from the little street vendor down the lane. His brew is like liquid poetry — strong enough to wake the ghosts of a thousand hangovers, smooth enough to make you forget whatever demons were chasing you yesterday.

*takes a swig from a wellworn coffee mug, eyes gazing out over Maenam Beach* You know, mornings here are like Bukowski poems raw, unfiltered, with just a hint of beautiful chaos. The tide rolls in like liquid silver, bringing whispers from a thousand nautical miles away. I’ve been here on Koh Samui for seven years now, and each sunrise still feels like a love letter from the universe.