why bricolage

I happen to think a lot, but don't keep neither diary nor journal.
this is just a piece of scattered thoughts passing through my mind while the heart is pumping oxygene-rich blood to my brain.

Thoughts are flying around, hovering on my mind, as I am pondering on it while I'm practising life. And these thoughts, might end up as idea, might end up as a catharsis, or just stupid things people think or do.

It may produce any result, it can be use as anything, it might reveal anything, it might point out at anything.
It is a bricolage. Of life in a Southeast Asia's most populous city.
Of a worker, of a student, of an androgyne, of a socially-construed female and male roles, of hypertexts and cyberspace, of timeless and restless souls, the rich and the haves, questioning life, the whatifs, the weirdism.

It's a record of what happens on the bus, walking in a crowd, seeing people, seeing cars driving pass by me, the market, the airport, the couple in a car, the street musicians, working colleagues, family members, college buddies, the lecturer, surfing, reading hypertext, relating to a stranger online, clubbing, exotic places, meeting tables, telephone conversation, text messaging.

With a bricolage, you can have anything.