Forgotten lines were filled in by imagination, the script amended for the insertion of earlier stifled thought, and there was true communion in place of circumspect utterances called conversation. It is that which is good for the fecundity of an artist's oeuvre, not nature and beauty. What else should he say: a modern world capital with the same poverty as its surrounding area and yet, condensed, it looks like it is more impoverished. When you can see them, I suppose, it would seem that on every block there are skyscrapers, malls, and dogs to the left and temples, dogs, and ghettos to the right, sidewalk restaurants and hawkers everywhere, but with world commerce and movement of a lot of people…fashion with smelly socks, so to speak… it is opulent and slummy… and if you don't harm anyone it is morally uninhibited and free…all making it rife for nights not unlike this one.
"Rife for nights not unlike this one? I don't know what you mean."
"I don't either, nothing, mai pen rai."
It reeled once again across his mind at the instant of watching the intimate stranger pick up his scattered clothes and go into the toilet.
"Go?," he asked loudly toward the closed door. "So soon? It won't be light for another two hours."
"Before she comes back," rejoined a somewhat muffled voice.
"Your mother?"
"My mother."
"And if you do not return right away."
"Then she'd pay for someone to take care of him until she returns from work."