I saw a twentyish woman at the subway station in late evening. After kissing a man that may be her boyfriend, she lingered near the exit, accosting passengers exiting from the station, accosting many passengers.
I was wondering what was she doing. Was she trying to peddling power or marijuana? Was she a girl of the street hooking potential clients? It was over ten pm. At that time, what could a young girl be doing by lingering like that?
Years ago, I saw similar situation in the country I am from, but not in the evening. It was in the daytime. The locale was in the tunnel exit. Those women looked older and less appealing. Like programmed automaton, they kept chanting "fapiao, fapiao."
Fapiao means invoice in the official language of that country. But those women most probably were peddling fake ones. The demand was too strong. Some chanting women took their babied with them, not knowing whether their major task was to sell fapiao or was to raise their babies. But I knew they were killing too birds with one stone: their chanting served as a lullaby to their babies.
I dreamed I fell asleep with those Dharma Bums during the exceptionally warm winter night outside the railway station. In the warm dreams, I saw with a condescending view that some babies grew up in the lullaby of Schubert's Serenade, some grow up in the mow of cows, some grow up in the automatic chanting of their sleepy mothers, while some grow up in the fading groans of their fatally addicted youngish moms.
In my dreams, I wished all the babies will have fleeting memories, and also wished my sweltering dreams would leave me soon.
I was wondering what was she doing. Was she trying to peddling power or marijuana? Was she a girl of the street hooking potential clients? It was over ten pm. At that time, what could a young girl be doing by lingering like that?
Years ago, I saw similar situation in the country I am from, but not in the evening. It was in the daytime. The locale was in the tunnel exit. Those women looked older and less appealing. Like programmed automaton, they kept chanting "fapiao, fapiao."
Fapiao means invoice in the official language of that country. But those women most probably were peddling fake ones. The demand was too strong. Some chanting women took their babied with them, not knowing whether their major task was to sell fapiao or was to raise their babies. But I knew they were killing too birds with one stone: their chanting served as a lullaby to their babies.
I dreamed I fell asleep with those Dharma Bums during the exceptionally warm winter night outside the railway station. In the warm dreams, I saw with a condescending view that some babies grew up in the lullaby of Schubert's Serenade, some grow up in the mow of cows, some grow up in the automatic chanting of their sleepy mothers, while some grow up in the fading groans of their fatally addicted youngish moms.
In my dreams, I wished all the babies will have fleeting memories, and also wished my sweltering dreams would leave me soon.
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