The typhoon passes with little fanfare, leaving only a film of grey cloud in its wake. A snail trail. A gauzy grey that lulls passengers to a doze on the MTR just after midday. Winter is here and Christmas is upon us. A Sikh man sits opposite me, fighting the doze. His turban is mulled wine red. A flock of grandparents burst into the carriage, unsteady as young deer, pulled by grandchildren, little sprites, who move like marbles thrown down a staircase. I read once that traditionally in Japan people believed that children were little manifestations of gods, manifestations that lose their godliness as time passes, which is why they are to be treasured while they are young. For blessings and because fleeting things have inherent value, though nobody really knows why or talks about it. We do celebrate Christmas though. In the presence of little gods, the hard metal seat beneath me, I think about how to be a better person.
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