Fog
In his sleep he hears the morning sounds of Ciang Mai: motorbikes and tuk-tuks whining past Thae Pae Gate, fruit sellers cursing scavenger dogs, monks`feet scuffling in the alley as they pass, collecting alms. He stirs and turns his face to the window, and even before his eyes open he knows the difference. In the kitchen the air conditioner switches itself off with a hollow rattle. He pushes himself upright and stares out at the day. Fog chokes the harbor, and the world is a study in shifting grays: pewter, charcoal, newsprint. The nearest tower blocks are faint shadows. Hong Kong, he tells himself, and an ache spreads through his chest, as if he`s swallowed ice water. Again he wonders how it is possible, to wake in a vacuum, in the absence of sound.
Jess Row -The train to Lo Wu
posted by Borghild Holsvik at 11:29 PM
0 comments
