It was good. Really good. Despite the arguing and the hiding, and endless shoving of people and food and people and food. It's weird what a month and a half can do when the only sky you get is the occassional sliver between buildings. Between typhoons. Between clouds and gaps in trees.

The rest is gray and green with the dampness that doesn't leave until you do. And then it finds ways for you to take it home. It's in my hair and photos. It stains skin and clothes and my tongue. Walking through streets, past stalls and buildings that had no choice to be demure about their history. Filth and lights and more food. Things that made lives, all strange five flavours.

People live there in messy reality, and they want order and space.

The only way I can sort it out is when I can set my not-so-photographic memory straight.

***

I didn't hear it from her. (That they shouldn't be exposed to him.) They certainly did not hear that from me. (That I had a fight waiting for me on the other side.)

Let these things go. Two directions per tangent. Keep the lines taut and the ends as far away as possible.

***

No trust. It's a hop to the MTR. The numbers and degrees are up to me. Find a goddamned way to earn what you want. Trust me to get to where I need to and with what I spend my energy. I will laugh when I feel appropriate; it's not meant to offend or disturb. I distrust for good reason, and see no reason not to give the same benefit to anyone and everyone else.

Just because this gives you something human means little.

Keith