Train doors open, thought I was going to be killed in the stampede, Recalling myself used to be good at the game pace.
Targeting, racing, squeezing, climbing,
No warning was given, thought I was going to be killed at the crosswalk, Forgot the taxi has the right of way.
But I always remember the humidity on my skull, All the narrow alley shortcuts, And the smell of nightmarket.
Life starts at 5pm, so put on our favorite flip flop, All we need is 17 dollars.
Two pork noodle, three blood jelly soup, one braised tofu with vegetables, One mango shaved ice, that makes it a dinner for four.
Chopping, sweating, yelling, waiting, wiping.
I seem to get lost in this convenient yet disorderliness easily, then I see mom passing the chopsticks.
“Did you hear the stinky tofu vendor got sued for cooking in the morning?”
“And by the way, all online orders can be delivered to the closest 7-11 by our house now.”