我看見了馬路口的麵包店。往日空閒時，我會從學校走到尖沙嘴碼頭，搭船到灣仔，再從灣仔乘 2X巴士回家。我喜歡坐在雙層巴士的頂層第一排，從被冷氣凍得寒冷的高處觀望黑灰的街道;又 或是夜晚，霓虹燈框邊的麵檔紅紅綠綠、高樓大廈優美的線條銀白燦目。我用目光輕掃，從不久 留。灣仔、銅鑼灣、天后，像地鐵站一樣五顏六色。只有西灣河似乎是淡藍色的，很清澈。我下 車，還聽著NewYorker Podcast，幻想遙遠的美國，自由自在的西方。無論選擇哪條路回家，都 必定要走向這家麵包店，彷彿我下了車純碎是為了走進這家麵包店，買一塊蛋糕。有時候我果真 壓制不住引誘，走進店裡買一塊甜番薯麵包。常買的那段時間是7塊港幣，不知現在可加價了沒 有。
在香港的時候，我總是獨自一人。若長期不能獨處，我的精神狀態逼近瘋狂，我覺得靈魂透過肌 膚無法呼吸，直至發紫、硬化，將近窒息死亡。獨處的時間是一種休閒，是在別人設置、強加在 我身上的時間表上稀罕的空隙。
或許是這個緣故，在想家這活動過程中，我最美好的回憶總是獨處一人的情境。我記得走在大馬 路上那種暢快、輕鬆。不需用專注的目光假裝聆聽別人的話，不用裝出很感興趣的樣子，不用像 做英文卷四，選出keyword，從而提出「答重點」的問題。我不需去研究那個人眼中的自己，去 模仿那個自己。獨處的時候，我並沒有自己:我是招牌上的「湯」字，我是巴士的右前輪，我是 長凳，我是街市裡買菜的阿嬸，我是阿嬸手裡青綠的水梨，我是樹。無名氏的自由是極端的快活 ，因為無名氏沒有現實，沒有後果，只有無限無限無限的可能。確實，無名氏的存在就是從一個 可能跳躍到另一個可能。
你會選擇僅此一個、美好的現實，還是不勝枚舉、琳瑯滿目的可能?或許這不是二選一的問題。 或「聖人」有個虛己，只用作向他人交代，實際上是數不勝數的人。這樣的人可有家可想?這樣 的人可有年可數?凡是「有」的地方就是家，凡是「有」的時候就是時候。
The clock on my desk that did not show local time said 05:23. In China, the New Year has now started for five hours and twenty-three minutes. (“And still you haven’t reached home!” a small voice chided, in a hysterically high tone.) A white friend once told me that the Chinese New Year period was when Chinese students most miss home. So I sat myself down now to miss home.
I saw the bakery at the crossroad. There was once a time when, after school, I would walk all the way from Jordan to the Tsim Sha Tsui pier, take the ferry to Wanchai, then take the 2X bus home. I liked sitting on the first row on the top deck of the bus, watching the black grey streets from a cold, air-conditioned height; otherwise it was night, and the neon lights sticking out of aged noodle booths on the sidewalk screamed with red and green. They were the more dramatic pedestrians. Tall and elegant buildings, contoured with silver glow sticks, towered over judgmentally. I gazed at them all, ever lightly and never stared. Wanchai, Causeway Bay, Tin Hau, colourful like the MTR stations. Only Sai Wan Ho was always light blue. I alighted the bus, still listening to my NewYorker Podcast, thinking of the distant America, the free West. No matter which road I chose to go home, I would have to walk towards this bakery, as though I had alighted the bus precisely to approach this bakery. Perhaps I had wanted a slice of cake, who knows. Sometimes I would actually go inside the bakery and buy a slice of cake. It was HKD 7 then, but it must cost more now.
When I was in Hong Kong, I was always alone. If I could not occasionally be with myself, I would fall close to insanity, my mind trapped by my skin, turning purple, hardening, slowly dying.
Perhaps because of this, as I indulged myself in the sport (of missing home), my most beautiful memories were always those of solitude. I remembered the carelessness with which I crossed the road, not pretending to listen, didn’t staring into your eyes, giving you my attention. At these moments there was no such attention to give. I was the painted “soup” on the billboard, I was the right front wheel of the bus, I was the bench, I was the lettuce in the plastic bag on the fresh market. I was a tree.