Lately I overhear whispers from the other side, snippets of the goings-on. The streets are wet with rain there, as here. People rush by. Here I sit at my desk for hours, bruised by fluorescent light. There, giant lanterns beckon ponderously in the wind, and I know I will stop for a minute at the temple, searching for a cat to cajole. Red glow from vertical signs and grill smoke from tented alleys along the train station, two ghosts haunt the city together. I know where I am, here. But I want to be there, lost.

This morning tears sat like stones in my throat, weighing down my head with sadness for the ugliness here. The hideous crush of concrete, smoke, and so many ugly buildings snuggled into each other's personal space. There is no personal space, no time to be alone, no wide open vistas.