On the bus, eight minutes ago: An elderly Chinese man sitting at the front with a newspaper on his lap. And a pen in his hand. He was writing writing writing all through the margins of the front page, in the white space around the headline, between the columns of articles, even across the colour picture. Every so often he stopped to peer intently at the characters he was drawing, then looking up thoughtfully at nothing in particular before scrawling his pen across someone else’s words. Editorial commentary? A letter? A story? A will? Does it even matter?
Words happen no matter what. They happen wherever they find room to grow. They will run roughshod over others if that’s what it takes to find life.