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“Good evening, now begins the one minute free rap performance, enjoy!” a voice boomed out as the metro doors closed on the night train, while I sat bored and played with my phone. I looked up and I saw a helmeted foreign man holding a skateboard, graffitied with his name, starting to rap. A tall white foreign guy, rapping in Chinese. 

I glanced at the people in the carriage. Some of them were not interest and continued playing on their phones, but some were mesmerized. The juxtaposition in attitudes between the passengers and the rapper aroused my interest. Instead of being awkward, it hinted at a connection taking place between us all, whether we chose to ignore him or not. 

He works in a high-end office. He was drained from the regular routine of daily life.  

“They always call me a rapper, but I prefer street poet, even though I am always in a business suit. When night falls, countless neon lights swallow up the entire city. I change into my jeans and jump on my skateboard, diving into the enormous and hollow world of the underground. I shuttle between the crowds. They look tired and blank. When I jump onto the train and start to rap, they are ignited and smile, which is the biggest reward to me. From this one-minute rap, they see the persistence, they see the craziness, and they see the dream.  Or they don’t give a fuck.”

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