It was eight months ago I boarded the ‘Flying Hongkonger’, and we are not reaching the shore. I can’t remember how I got on the ship. It seems that I was already in this cabin when I woke up. The time here is chaotic. The bearing and heading are blurred. The only thing that keeps me awake is the writing of this Logbook.
Sometimes I can’t speak, pictures help me record; sometimes the image and memory betray me, the blank proves the existence of time.
A friend from Hong Kong suddenly appeared on the ship and brought me a phantom. His voice is still wandering like ghosts every day in every street in Hong Kong.
No wonder when my friend left, leaving a black coat.
