I was gingerly finding a path on roots in the peat land, tread by tread in the reddish water oozing between the trunks of the jelutong and ramin trees. The dense foliage of the new branches still clustered thickly shading the way, but soon it became evident: the 'poems written on the sky' have been almost wiped out at Sabangau River.

Amangkurat is loneliness: the friendless king on an island.

In a house in a dank alley in Paris on March 24, 1897, a 67-year-old man is writing. We do not know who he is. As the Narrator begins his story in Umberto Eco's novel The Prague Cemetery, no one has yet 'been named'.

Fayadh escaped the death sentence. The news came in early February: his sentence was commuted to eight years jail and 800 lashes.

There is a story about a Bedouin living far from Damascus, in the interior of Syria, who was disappointed when he rode a train for the first time. "I'm not satisfied," he complained to his friend. "The ticket was expensive, but the journey ended too quickly."

It is 2016. At 75, my life lying before me is far less than the life I've lived. This is the age when people are usually uneasy with the present, because in the 21st century the present is increasingly whipped along by the future. The technology surrounding us is not there for right now: fast trains, solar energy cars, hologram communication... life seems to be moving without pausing in the present.