Camila + Haruki
I loitered around the littered streets of Tokyo's red light district (歌舞伎町), watched the v-BBC on my EMOS panoramic screen as I bumped into v-hostesses and genetically enhanced andro-Nancies, switching inevitably to SFC2 with a flick of my wrist where I watched Bad Boy burning through the cold layers of outer space, the seconds and minutes of my life slowly depleting before my eyes like a hospice clock. The Asteroid Apocalypse was akin to watching yourself die in slow motion. Strangely, being a PhD candidate in Buddhism and Existentialism didn't help me whatsoever. SFC2's countdown was so bloody cruel, so awe-inspiring. It made you think about the forward movement of time, Eliade life cycles, and the Bergsonian definition of subjective time. I knew I would never get my life back, regardless of when Bad Boy sliced earth into pieces. As I watched those milliseconds racing by, the days and hours slowly disappearing from the universe like a nostalgic vapor, I began to cry again like a berk. I thought of Camila, the way we would watch the asteroid together, holding hands in the campus biodiesel bus, scared, inevitably aroused, I thought about how good it felt to make love to her inside the stall of a gender-neutral bathroom on the Macau Glider, the way she pealed off my belt and whipped my back like a jockey as I entered her, how warm and safe my flat in Hong Kong had been, especially after we made love. Since that fateful day when earth was sentenced to death by cosmology, sex had become simultaneously sacred, mundane, pointless, and also urgent.