There’s a feeling that writing gives me - when everything turns into a misty white, leaving me at the centre to project my own film reel of images onto the blank canvas. 

My first taste of Wong Kar-wai was in the lecture halls of university. In some whirlwind concoction of homesickness, Asian pride, and artistic curiosity, I found myself with a newfound enthusiasm for Chinese pop culture.

Hidden away in a surprisingly clean alleyway along the steep slope of Old Bailey Street, it was in this “secret” hole-in-the-wall that I’ve never been more grateful for my friends.

“Bittersweet.” The word I had almost chosen from the time-loved novel Stuart Palm handed me in the middle of his act. Perhaps it would have been more fitting.