Home Club-ed, Butter-ed Factory, Ghim Moh...

Pub crawling, disco hopping. Whatever you call it.
Home Club, Butter Factory.

Had a few drinks knocked into me.
But I couldn't find it in myself, nor anywhere, to mix around, to socialise, to talk.
The music roared on, the lights spinning, the crowd dancing.

I was just immobile. In a corner, wondering why the f**k I was actually mad enough to appear.

The dim lights remind me of your bright smile,
the next song an indication that time has passed while I was missing you.
Texting was just a pathetic attempt at trying to talk to you.
I guess I failed...

I left early, to seek solace in a place, a place full of friends, sofas, and a tv showing 22 men chasing after a ball...