Still in Bangkok.

Earlier, on Bang Kachao, an old man invited me to see the local boxing ring. It was a quaint square of raised plastic behind the ferry building, plenty worthy of attention, but he just slipped me some nudie photos, giggling womanishly. “You?” He kept asking. “You?”

I finished my seltzer, pitched the bottle in the trash, and walked off. There was no other point.

Later, on back of a motorcycle taxi, I keep my arms pinched tight around the thin-chested driver as we drift lightlessly beneath highways and abandoned, half-built wings of the SkyTrain. I look around me in the sweltering, peaceless night and wonder if anybody else is trapped here.

Getting places is so good in Thailand. Now if only I could get out of here.