A cheerful pink monstrosity squats unapologetically in the center of a sterile bus interchange. Tentacles of garish plastic trinkets of no real use recline languorously on violently pink shelves. They are symptoms of a society with too much spending power and meager sensibility.

 

A thousand heartbeats mingle and fade in the oblivious afternoon light. Nothing is private in this crowd; their faces, their sweat, their fears and dreams intermingle with yours to create a cacophony of the senses that is terrible and beautiful.

 

A young man shuffles past, dragging his feet quickly, as if he is hesitant to get where he is going, but desperately wants to be there in a hurry. He wears pastel-green jeans and a white cotton turtleneck. He does not sweat, not even under the ministrations of the tropical afternoon sun in the midst of a concrete forest. His gait is a fitting allegory for the Singaporean condition (regardless of the pastel-green jeans).

 

They are all in a constant state of frantic urgency, compelled to hurl themselves dutifully towards the myth of material nirvana. They do not understand what their destination is, and they do not know the way back.

 

A nation of blind spermatozoa, whose collective sex life is as exhilarating as freeze-dried garden slugs.

 

 

Welcome to Singapore.