It is hot.
the sharp acrid smell of the wet market approaches from behind,
the calm, sweet taste of a nearby bakery floats by.
The septic aroma of a Cantonese fast food restaurant emerges,
evoking images of molded plastic seats and tacky advertising
It is hot.
The sunlight is bright, as I nimbly dodge through the crowd.
tens of thousands of signs dangle above my head,
to the side, makeshift newspaper stands loiter.
I turn my head to see the river of people I am drowning in.
It is hot.
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