I recline on a fifty-two-story rooftop, smoking, overhearing from two blocks away, on a thirty-eight-story rooftop, John Chan talking to himself about his aspirations, and another two blocks further, on a twenty-six-story rooftop, Alan Wong watering his potted farm. In another district, on the rooftop of a six-story walk-up, the painter Charles Lee thinks aloud, explaining to this city the potential of revolution. I stretch my head down and look: caustic neon signs, caustic headlights, caustic storefronts, caustic tourists. The street rats have been extinct for decades. I turn my head up for another puff: I don’t want to go down. It’s just at this moment that, on the opposite forty-seventh- story rooftop, Jane Lam jumps off, with a thundering sound. I stretch my head down and look again, finding Jane Lam downstairs at last. I turn my head up for another puff, then stand up and say: “Hell, let’s build a goddamn nation on the rooftop.” A slice of silence follows. When I turn my head for another puff, I’m astonished to find Alan Wong on a thirty-eight-story rooftop looking at me, and John Chan and Charles Lee raising their arms at me. First one, then another, then three, thousands upon thousands of young rooftoppers crawl up one by one across the city. I cast my gaze ahead at high and low rooftops, each with people standing on them, a sight without horizons.
我卧在五十二樓天台抽煙，聽見兩條街後三十八樓天台上的約翰陳跟自己談理想， 再隔兩條街廿六樓天台上的艾倫黃在淋水種菜。另一區六樓唐樓天台上的畫家查理 斯李在自言自語，向這城講述革命的可能。我探頭下望:刺眼的霓虹燈、刺眼的車頭 燈、刺眼的商鋪、刺眼的遊客。街上的老鼠都死清光了好幾十年。我仰頭抽一口煙: 我不想下樓。就在這個時候，對面四十七樓天台的珍林跳了出去，一聲巨響。我再探 頭下望，見珍林終於下了樓，仰頭抽一口煙，然後站起來:「屌!我地o向天台建國吧 啦!」接著一片寂靜。在我仰頭再抽一口煙之際，赫然發現艾倫黃在三十八樓天台凝 望著我，約翰陳、查理斯李向我舉起了手。城裡千千萬萬個天台上的年輕人，一個、 兩個、三個，逐一爬起身。放眼望去，高高低低的天台上全都站著人，一望無際。