A blind man smacks the railing with his white cane. Over and over again. It’s time to wake up, his cane says to the commuters. He shepherds us up the escalators as we file out of one of the island’s deepest MTR stations. Exit A is raining. Exit B is raining. I sprint across two crosswalks before the lights turn where I am told the art supply shop is out of oil sticks today.
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