It is morning in the coldest month of the year. Heat coats the city in an unbearable warmth. Unafraid of the darkness the searing sun clings to the city. Tall identical brothers stand straight and proud; they demand attention. Each one trying to impress Bangkok, with their grey stone slabs, dirty glass and towering height. They reach their arms out, and yet they still blend into the drab skyline. An everlasting smog coils around the city dulling the dazzling morning light.

Listen. Fumes splutter out of exhaust pipes, horns honk wildly, tires screech and there are quiet cries for help and empty well-wishes; this is the tune the city hums. Toady’s melody is laced with betrayal. The drumming of shoes on the pavement are in time. One and two, three and four. Solo dancers glide forward. They pirouette, leap and prance across the streets, each dancer is lit up by striking rays of sun. Unconcerned by the turmoil of misfortune that consumes the city: broken bones, stolen shoes, tattered costumes and unrefined arabesques. Masked by the feathers they flaunt and their eccentric costumes they bewitch fellow friend and neighbour. Ensnaring them with their extravagant and hollow personas. It is well practiced and hides their true desires: survival, wealth, food, fame and shelter. Each delicate dancer leaving destruction in its wake. They batter, bruise and dent the city, and yet it still forgives. Its heart strumming vigorously.

Many midday markets bloom: Saphan Phut, Pratunam market, Chatukchak weekend market and Khlong Toey fresh market. Hundreds of wrinkled faces lie ahead; frown lines permanent. A choir of sickly sweet voices enchant witless minds. Their merciless songs reach each chaotic conner and then floods onto the streets. Luring in hollow stomaches, and intrigued tourists. Bright disheveled stalls selling an infinite array of things: exotic fruit, charred meats, woven bags and flayed fish. Crimson red blood splatters, detached heads, guts and innards splayed across the tables. Paralysed and lost sea creatures are crammed inside of buckets. They await the chopping block, while their captors taunt them with gleaming knives. Dread etched into their expressions. Their family’s rich red meat displayed in blood, which is then purchased without an after thought. Once the customary haggling has taken place, calloused hands exchange money.

Stop. The Chao Phraya river roars through the city. It is overflowing and is full of plastic bottles, shoes, bags and socks. The water rolls and crashes is like a young child. Amused by the chugging boats who haul thousands of passengers back and forth all day. Tourists stick out, dressed in their shorts, sandals, tank top and skirts. They are susceptible to the relentless heat unlike the locals who wear: shirts, ties, pants and blazers. The water playfully nudges the boats causing them to rock gently. Its currents collect trash in awe of its radiant colours, which light up the murky water. It is enchanted and unaware of the dangers the rubbish holds. Silently choking the ignorant and innocent creatures, who are one of the few with full stomaches in this city. They are filled by the plastic that nestles in at the bottom of their stomaches. Drifting aimlessly they are swept away and forgotten. Attracted to treasures and wisdom, the river greedily gathers stories which have floated from a far. It is intertwined with the city listening in. Waves rich with gossip that has tumbled from mouth to mouth. Tales of the old, which are forgotten and now too lost to the waves. Words and sounds trapped in the thick water. It holds onto these stories preserving them. Giving immortality to these characters, and the cities which came before.

It is midnight and the city still sweats. Desperation and misery crawl its way out of the cracks in the pavement. Smothering the streets; infecting the alleyways. The wealthy and their thousands are long gone; hidden away in their white pristine houses. They rise so high that all the dark alleyways blend into one labyrinth, one irrelevant problem. Still the tendrils still claw their way up their towers, planting seeds of sadness, greed and unfulfillment. Different to the pain which is gouged into the alleyways, which is where diseased cats limp; stomaches carved away. Scrounging ravenously for scraps and rubbish; they look for anything to dull their hunger. Plastic explodes out of dumpsters contaminating the streets. Injection paraphernalia scattered amongst the grime. It is not just the animals who will find their next meal here. Under the starless night sleepers slumber tucked under a layer of thick pollution. Itching and scratching, up and down, red thighs, bug bites and untreated illnesses eating into their dreams. They city feels cold.

You take in the unfamiliar surroundings. Pandemonium plays out in the streets. An unnatural humming bounces off the walls of the city. Consuming the promise of tranquillity. The brocher you saw was different: bright, clean and welcoming. Yet you find the havoc invigorating. It is different from you nine to five job, which only provided you with unrelenting back pain. You crave endlessly for danger and adventure. You hope that this is here you will find it. Unaware of the death that plagues the city you venture further. Thousands of dizzying lights, and ad displays spin. They create a whirl pool around you, which suck you into the chaos. You hurry onwards thinking you are safe because you have a roof waiting for you at home, but unknown to that means nothing. Your feet drum on the pavement, and now you to glide across hard stone streets. So you too are vulnerable to the dark tendrils which roam the city.