hanging out in my rock star's office. a 40 square ft space filled with interllect and the essense of all our geekiness.
she said she wanted to met her.
she even reminded me, i was like, dang, she is not kidding.
there are too much she in my live, and i m totally enjoying it. those endless girls who are be coming women, those women turning into girls, old women growing into infants.
and my rock star, i wonder what would she say to my baby.
my back stage pass let me open the door into that 40 sqaure ft space, her dressing table filled with poetry. my rock star talked to me like a friend, my rock star rouse her eyebrows at my pain, my rock star deep in thought about what to say to me, my rock star wanna meet my baby.

was thinking about hong kong, the place so beautiful it feels like poetry.
i remember this girl from primary school, she was the one, i was thinking, the reason i started reading and writing.
we climbed up into her bed, and i rmemeber i wanted her approval so much. i remember she almost got mad at me for me reading the wrong type of book. i remember we talked about story, i remember those thick wu sia xiao shuo she lent me, and i read them, and i admired her like a kid at my age. we were such little bohemians
and i thought about hong kong, the sea breeze, the spiky hair teenage girls that sliced their wrist, playing with their cell phones and wearing strange clothes. faceless crowd that passed you by, give you casthrophobia and give you that distant, strange sense of comfort, that you thought you have already forgotten. I remember the grey walls, the neon, the oily, damp air, and thousands shattered pieces of noises, people brushing against your shoulder, perfume, the causeway bay office lady with their LVs, the boy in Vans shoes, listening to the radio, in big sunglass that make them look japanese and the attitude of pride and shame, hk teenagers are forever stuck in between, they can never be anything freely, they are pride of themselves sitting at a little quaint shop at mongkok, selling stuff they loves, and they are ashamed of sitting in a little quaint shop at mongkok, selling stuff, instead of sitting in white cubicles, wearing a necktie and being called Mister. and the paradox make them so charming, like they don even see the freedom. people here sit at a little quaint shop making no money having fun, love wat thye are doing, die young live fast, no shame at all. you are gay and partying and fighting with another gay man ,you are proud, you wore a skirt at night, and you are so proud, you have no shame. girls in hong kong has so much shame, those poor chinese kids, have their last name to bear, that weight them, weight them and thye stoped growing. they are short, short little pale people wearing baggy clothes, and still have to bear that last name. little kids, not even 5, have those gigantic backpack, the rich one has maid to carry, but they carry their own last name like a cross. and when they reach the destiny, they erect that last name like the bare tree full of splinter, crucify themself, nail after nail, until all the shame is finished, all the debt are paid, their parent wept, and they are glorified like heroes.