Bugis MRT. 

A foreign worker lifts a ladder and walks across the station. 

His colleague, a Filipino, goes to ask for permission to start work. 

A Chinese man in orange pants collects a Today newspaper, leans on a pillar and starts reading. 

A Chinese woman drags her slippers across the station, only to stop in the middle of the crowd and go the other way. 

A young Malay woman wears her hot pink curls proudly as she is waiting outside Guardian; eyes never leaving her phone screen. 

An old Indian man with vertigo shuffles quietly across the station once the crowd has gone; a forlorn look across his face. 

An English lady comes to ask the Citibank officer for directions to Bugis Street, before politely saying thank you and leaving. 

A crying baby on a stroller hollering and wailing as the Chinese mother speeds up the pushing in embarrassment. 

An elderly man sits on his wheelchair patiently, trying to make his living by selling tissue packets to anyone not rushing for time and willing to stop for a minute. 

And then the crowd comes

And goes. 

And they all vanish into different 



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