Hong Kong Solo
Late August days in Hong Kong, so sticky it feels like the air might congeal before your eyes, like you might get petrified – an eel in jelly. And we all slither to and fro, between the pungent markets and the austere brand stores doodling our GPS trails guided by the urban compass of want and air-con. Dressed to the nines, the city’s eyes are wet and ready to engage. We are danced for and become the danced. Everything is a whirl, with us the slo-mo eye of the storm. And when the deal is done, the eye retracts, the heels are clicked together and we are back on the street with the other punters, keeping our secrets to ourselves, none the wiser. There’s the paradox of proximity, neon lights clambering over one another to light up the loneliness of the street, of being together alone, alone together.