ABSTRACT
I was in a gay bar called Time, a small place in a pedestrian lane behind Hollywood Road, Hong Kong, on the downhill side. Sitting by myself near the entrance I was looking somewhat absently past the few patrons into the narrow cave-like interior. What caught my eye was a picture of an old-fashioned clock face projected down onto a white pillar at a distorting angle. Of course, I thought, the clock face references the bar’s name. How whimsical in a city where time is taken so seriously, calibrated in seconds by the electronic clocks on the metro platforms.
