It is the late morning in a loft apartment near the Sillim metro station. The apartment is already hot having spent the morning intercepting the yellow, dusty light before it could reach the undergrowth of the city streets. Looking down from this canopy, one can see an old man hobbling along the street. Down another direction are children dashing toward a grotto like playground. Somewhere in the distance is the sound of an electric saw, the banging of metal. A ripping sound, as if the film of the placid movie that had just been playing was rudely ripped apart. The air-raid sirens. It takes a minute for the world to come back into focus. But gripping the window sill with a sweaty hand and looking outside, it is clear that nothing has changed. A few building over an old woman is hanging her laundry, without the slightest hurry. As if an invisible and impermeable box were enclosing the loft and confining the ear drum tearing sound within. Outside the world is still peaceful.
There is a certain nocturnal cityscape that only exists in Asia. There is no doubt that Asian cities use far more blue and green tinted lights than there yellow-centric American counterparts. This lends deep-sea sort of look to the city which is only accentuated by the humid air, which in turn blurs the starkness of the lights, their illumination instead contributing the a glowing haze. Standing on the roof of the largest department store in the world at 9:00 and looking down, the air feels thick, as if the lights of the city have lent it weight. Looking down one feels as if one is looking down into some phosphorescent tide pool full of glowing alien corals and pulsing, skittering crabs.
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