The escalator moves through the city like a slow river. People step on, step off, barely breaking stride. I ride it for hours, watching the storefronts slide past.
In Mong Kok, the neon signs stack vertically, each one shouting over the others. The effect is not cacophony but conversation—a dense, layered discourse in light.
A woman at the dai pai dong serves congee with such precision that it feels like ceremony. The bowl arrives steaming, the century egg arranged like a constellation.
Rain comes suddenly and without apology. The city does not pause. Umbrellas bloom like flowers, and the streets become rivers reflecting neon.