Bangkok, July 22, 2019

In the morning the brigade surges onto the boulevard. A truck disgorges its water from full hoses. Orange silhouettes follow it, sweeping the river between their rubber boots, making the straw of the brooms hiss on the bed of the city.

In front of the 7-Eleven a man of strong build, barefoot, skin and hair dirty, seated like a baby who has just learned to sit: limbs limp, set down in front of him. He wanders his glassy eye over the cars and the passersby.

At the foot of the BTS stumps, clubfeet, ravaged skins collect the coins and the crumpled bills.

I set foot on the escalator, I peel myself off the street. The skytrain carries me off in an air-conditioned bubble. It slices the buildings, cuts the panes, mows the storeys, levels the roofs. The buildings fall like Tetris blocks: beige or white, yellow or pale pink, grave black. The very smooth shopping centres undulate before my eyes – tumble down their capital letters.

The train strides over a highway, the view clears, and the sky. In the distance are two towers that dominate the river – they are capped with gold. Nearby are the eyes of a student in glasses – they are rimmed with gold. Under the wheels of the skytrain are sparks – never does a rain of gold fall back on the city.