Mart-deBlog

Nights in Hong Kong aren't nights. They are not days. They are the virus that spreads through every brain, turning minds into overdrive when the switches flip. The days have died, trampled under heavy smog and concrete. Daylight is for work, like machines following rules they work shut-off from feeling to prevent it from sucking in all the unhappiness and dissatisfaction of the hard city life. Only dead days. Only concrete and smog.
But then the neonight sets in and outside my door there cries of chinese guys, lasers beam over the windowview on the other side, music in the rooms are turned on and the downstairs she begins practicing the cello. Outside the nightcrawlers wake up from their mechanisms while slurping their bleach noodles, they do not go home since most of them do not have a home. Their dead days can only buy a bedroom so they stay out. The neonight is their home.

It is 4 a.m. and I am wide awake, as for the past 2 weeks. I thought it was insomnia. It is not. It is the virus spreading through my cortex, fueling it, lightening it. I rfealize now, I am slowly starting to live on the flipside of the neonight.



















As I lie awake, my earphones sing moloko lyrics :
...
We have ways to make you understand
We demand you let us in
Under your skin
You tuned in to the frequency
We cant let you be
We live happily
Beneath
On the underneath
On the inside
The flipside
...