when it grows too fast
You love Shanghai. Not sure why. The air chokes of pollution and it's a red mist when you walk through dark streets lit only by neon and shine of the food in which is stored all the world's expensive oil. There are stadium lights and intrusive eyes everywhere so you always feel like you're being watched, like you're being stalked by a million digital spiders powered by the anxious, vengeful hearts of a billion people. People who live in pidgeon holes and traverse their city on intersecting flyovers, who walk from dusty street to dusty street watching tourists buy up everything that's beautiful. For you, you can't imagine a world where a McDonald's meal costs twenty five yuan. You're the sort who darns his own socks and works in a tarmac factory. The sort who'd never visit prostitutes. And you tell yourself you love your city even though the only birds around are the European pidgeons they put there for show. Even though all you hear is coarse mandarin and the blaring of horns. Even though you've been robbed twelve times and, once, you stole a purse, just to get your own back. You love Shanghai, because they tell you to. No, no, you love Shanghai, you really do.