The outside world still fractured by the remnant night, a few clouds wandering around the sky, hours slow dripping into caffeinated day, heat and humidity almost unbroken. Off across town, the mrt still quieter than before the virus, seated in the cooled air.

Walking around the periphery of the main station, the debris of city life; tales gathered in meagre rolls of possessions, crouched figures hunched begging, paper cups with a couple of coins, eyes distant as the stars. Inside the concourse, the floor cleared beneath the cloak of the virus, a few small groups gathered, immigrants from Indonesia and the Philippines mostly, same as I remember in HK all those years ago, gathering in public spaces, lacking the privacy most of us take for granted.

Out there beyond the island the world seems to be marching, a day of demonstrations, that latent and faltering hope that this will be the act which tips the scales, when we can finally move away from the legacies of this broken system which revolts at the very idea of representation for the masses, which demands scenes like those which surround me here, which measures worth by skin colour, religion, accent. A system which benefits the few, which is held up by their representatives who disguise themselves by claiming to represent us, a system predacious by design and hungering for sacrifice...

Another night's fallen, 101 towering bright against the dark sky, tinged blue and starless.