The last three months I spent in between Hong Kong and China.
Metal fences that used to define space taken away as protestors use them as barricades during protests. Those probably responsible for public facilities makes futile attempts to redefine space with orange tapes and yellow chains as if to reinforce a border that never existed.
At the bus stop on a Sunday. There was a man dressed in all black with a black mask. A protestor. He didn’t get on the buses that came his way, drinking his coffee and leaving the empty cup on the side of the road. He pulls up his pants from his ankles and with a black pen, writes a few numbers on his calf, then disappears into the other side of the streets.
I ask my friend few days later what he was up to. “Must be the lawyer’s number in case he is arrested.”
I was carrying a guitar my brother had left in Hong Kong and because he never bought a case, he wrapped it in a black cloth with a ball of string. I didn’t realize the ball of string came off on the streets and some older man was yelling “Miss Miss!!” I turned back to see a young man in his school uniform putting the strings back into a ball for me.