The Lost Steps. Hong Kong Island

As I have acquired the habit of walking with the rhythm of my breathing, I am astonished to discover that men who surround me, go, come, cross each other, on the wide sidewalk carrying a rhythm alien to their organic wills. If they walk at such rythm and not another, it is because their walk responds to the fixed idea of ​​reaching the corner in time to see the green light that allows them to cross the avenue. Sometimes, the crowd that rises up from the mouths of the subterranean tram, every few minutes, with the constancy of a heartbeat, seems to break the general rhythm of the street with an even greater hurry than the reigning one; but soon after, the normal agitation time between light and traffic light is restored. As I can not adjust to the laws of this collective movement anymore, I opt to move very slowly, glued to the windows, because along the shops, there is something like an area of ​​indulgence for the elderly, the disabled and those who are not in a hurry. I find, then, in the narrow sheltered spaces that are often found between two storefronts, or two poorly welded houses, human beings that rest, as if stunned, like mummies in an advanced state of pregnancy, with a wax face; in a red-brick gazebo, a black man wrapped in a ragged coat,; in a hola; a dog shivers between the shoes of a drunk who has fallen asleep standing up.

(The Lost Steps, Alejo Carpentier)

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