Next to the Legislative Council, crowds are milling in the square with a bronze statue. There are crowds by the fountain, under the covered walkways, the pavements and even the road. You think you have come across some meeting or demonstration. But the people are talking and laughing, food is laid out on the ground, boom boxes are playing pop songs, only dancing is missing.

Amazed at the streets of picnic groups between the tall buildings, you thread your way through them until you come to the closed doors of the Prince's Building where there is a banner with a portrait of Christ on the Cross. A priest is explaining the gospel, and the faithful are repenting in the open air. Eighty to ninety percent of the congregation are women, all with dark complexions. You suddenly realize that this is probably where the Filipino maids of rich Hong Kong families gather for recreation on Sundays. To support their families, these women work in Hong Kong so that they can send money back to the Philippines. There is a buzz of talking and laughing, but you do not understand their language and cannot hear their pain of being away from home.

How long will this situation continue? Will new immigrants from the Mainland replace the Filipino maids? When the whole world is expelling immigrants, can this place be an exception? Of course, you need not worry yourself unnecessarily, the big buildings under the blue sky and white clouds will not crumble, and Hong Kong Island will not turn into a desert. At this instant, as you make a detour and move through the crowds, you are assailed by a profound loneliness, but this is the loneliness that has always been your salvation. In any case, you are not Christ and do not have to sacrifice yourself to enlighten the world. Moreover, there is no chance of your being resurrected, so what is important is for you to live properly in this present world.

Once again, you are plunged into the darkness evoked by the sound of her voice. As if in a dream, with one foot heavy and one light, you stagger about in broad daylight through this noisy crowd while fresh and old memories weave together.

You say Margarethe-speaking to her in your mind-the story of the new people is terrifying, but you no longer need to wash your heart and change your face to cleanse your errors and misdeeds. The pristine kingdom of that brand-new society was nothing but a huge fraud. People who did not understand, were confused, could not explain their own actions-that is, living human beings-were subjected to interrogation about themselves to such an extent that they lost the very basis for their existence.

What you want to say is that Margarethe does not need to purify herself, there is no need for her to repent, and, moreover, rebirth is impossible. She is, she is just like you!

A woman had given you life. Heaven is a woman's womb, whether it is the womb of one's mother or a prostitute. You would prefer to sink into the dark chaos rather than have to pretend being a virtuous man, a new person, or the follower of some religion.

You are on an overhead bridge with an endless stream of cars speeding below. On Sunday, there are few people on this normally busy thoroughfare between the tall buildings and the shops. You lean on the rail and look down on the road below. You are really tired. There are still two more performances of your play and there is more than an hour to the matinee show at two o'clock. The evening show is at seven o'clock, and after that performance there will be photo ops with the actors, and then dinner, which will go on until quite late. You should catch up on some sleep but are reluctant to go back to the hotel. She still pervades your senses, that wild frenzy before parting, the smell of her body with your semen smeared on her heaving breasts.

You go down to the street and come to a movie theater, and, without finding out what is playing, you buy a ticket and go in. You need to be alone in the darkness, to be engrossed in your thoughts about her. It is a Hong Kong slapstick comedy. Your eyes close, you understand little Cantonese, and this is just the thing for taking a nap. The seat is soft and comfortable, and you stretch out your legs. It is your good fortune to have won the freedom to express yourself, there are no taboos, and you can say whatever you want to say and write whatever you want to write. Maybe, as she had suggested, you should write all this down for yourself as a record. You should look with transcendent eyes upon yourself, a man who is an animal with a consciousness, an animal stranded in a human forest.

You have nothing to complain about. To be able to enjoy life, you have paid a price, but, apart from lies and bullshit, what doesn't come at a cost? You should articulate your experiences in writing, leave traces of your life, just like the semen you ejaculate. Surely blaspheming the world will bring you joy! It has oppressed you, and you have the right to seek revenge like this.

There is no hatred. Margarethe, do you hate? You asked her if she hated you, and she shook her head as she laid it on your belly. You stroked her tangled mass of soft hair and let her suck you. She said she was your slave and you were her master, she belonged to you. You were less generous and just kept taking.

You should regain your equilibrium, look at the world, including yourself, with normal eyes. The world is like this, and will continue to be like this. A person is so insignificant, and one can achieve nothing more than making such a gesture.

When you wake up, the lights are on, and people are quickly getting up and leaving. You come out of the theater, hail a cab, and return to the hotel. When the woman at reception hands you the key, there are two telephone messages for you, to return calls. They are probably for dinner appointments, but at night, you have a farewell dinner with the actors and you can't go off somewhere else.Back in your tidy room, there are no items of her clothing on the bed, floor, or desk; it is as if a woman had not stayed here with you. You can't help feeling sad, and lie down fully clothed on the bed. The freshly changed, newly laundered sheets and pillowcases smell clean, and the air conditioner is humming. Not a sign of her or a trace of her smell remains, and, unfortunately, no surveillance camera to prove she had made love with you and that you had not been hallucinating.

Margarethe, you are calling out to a real woman, this is not just the sound of your inner mind. She has aroused your past, and it stands there before your eyes. She is already fused with your memories, and you can't help wanting to retrieve both your fresh and almost forgotten memories.

Right now, she is on a plane, and by tomorrow, this week will have passed. And, as she said, she will again be her boss's lover, and, as she had with you, she will make love with her boss. You have already fallen in love with this sadomasochistic prostitute and can't help thinking of her, her moistness and smell, which arouse your lust. Was she telling the truth when she said she had been raped at thirteen, or was that a strategy of seduction? Should you just treat her as a slut? Or should you let her accompany you in your thoughts, be a companion in your heart, so that you can share with her your loneliness and suffering?

Maybe you should make up your mind to write down the memories and experiences she has summoned up, but is it worth doing? You no longer need to waste your life doing such utterly meaningless things, but then, what is meaningful? Is that play of yours, which is banned on the Mainland but has been staged here and due to go on stage again tonight, meaningful? Was it worth the suffering it brought you? If you had not written that play, wouldn't your life have been much easier? Why, then, do you write?

If it is only through expressing yourself that you exist, then is that the reason for your existence? Does this then mean that you are a book-writing machine, driven by vanity to squander away your life? Perhaps she is right, just sink into carnal lust so that you can savor the pain. Since it is impossible to extricate yourself from it, simply sink into it. What need is there for you to promote morality, and where, in fact, can morality be found? That you are no match for the world and can only take refuge in the written word for a little solace and joy is like Margarethe's telling you about her suffering in order to exorcise it, even though doing this is unbearable.