It is dusk. In my mind, a humdrum of ideas. I cannot see its end. The landscape has always been a treadmill and I, in the train cabin, have always been unmoving. Unchanging. I am here. I am here. A lamp post goes by. A building. A tree. I think about change. The landscape changes. There used to be a hill. It used to be a field. There used to be forest. Now it is a HDB. Now it is a condominium. I think about paintings. Brush strokes. Thin lines. Thick lines. Broad sweeping strokes. Careful line accents. Harsh harsh. I think about light. The lights turn on. They turn off. Change, light, paint. Can I paint with my camera? I am unmoving. I am here. The landscape is a treadmill. The landscape paints itself. Click. The train drags my camera. The landscape wants to be painted. The shutter closes. Barely a whisper. No one notices. Click. The landscape drags itself past. Present. Past. It is. And then no more. Nothing stays for too long. The landscape is there. Not quite. It is painted. Not quite. The landscape has changed. The landscape changes. The landscape will change.