COVER BY SUJI CHOI
From the Editor
While lying alone on a beach back home, a thought crossed my mind. "If I died right now, everything leading up to this moment would be given weight. The lines around objects would sharpen, words spoken to me earlier would replay with a profound cadence. Past glances would be elongated, the relationships I’ve built would slot into place—no more doubt about the correctness, the beauty of it all." The beauty of life suddenly, knowingly, zapped out of existence would be almost too much to take.
It’s funny, I thought, how this meaningless moment will pass just like any other but in the right context, shoved up right beside death, it can mean everything. Life is simultaneously lightness and weight—it is what we make of it.
I want to thank all of our contributing artists for showing us what they make of their lives, for allowing their personal stories to be crystallised in this issue, wrinkle-free, as life passes by us in a blur. I hope you enjoy indulging in each of their pieces as much as I’ve enjoyed watching closely as they gently bloom to life.
My boyfriend at the time had a ledge outside his bedroom, and when he wanted to brood he would climb over his window and sit there. His apartment was on the seventh floor and he would let his legs dangle over Bombay.
I moved into my first proper home two summers ago: a yellow, forty-five foot cruiser stern narrowboat called Idler. Previously, I’d rented with friends usually for periods of about six months. I recall these living situations as being in a constant state of flux.
Shades of red, green and burning blue cast across a sea of faces, most of them smiling or drunk. Hanging above these heads are neon signs that bathe the crowded street in its multi-coloured hues. Here, in the heart of the Soho district in Hong Kong, the low hum of the lights can barely be heard over the usual Friday night commotion.