Storyboard of London Kaori Maeda
I, as one of those extras, scurry around you. Projectors reel films one after another, recording a seamless volume of your history. You, ever so still, stand there and watch fast-forwarded images, sometimes sickening, capturing every motion from east to west. Among the streams of blurs, blue round plaques appear; those of legends you have proudly raised. I know the other side of you. When the sun fades out, you nonchalantly smuggle in a herd of growling dogs hungry for food, ravaging your streets, smudging your name. In the dim light, they mark their territory, splashing paints, screaming their names; those under-exposed profligate squatters. Stepping on stubs smouldering danger, I, as a passer-by hurry home, a shelter I have put together; my past, my ambition, my will, my devotion. Locking up all of my yesterdays, I step out from home, into a scene where people stream in and against the current. 94
