She was staring outside of the hospital window, at the cars and pedestrians moving in slow and wonderful ways like the bubbles in lava lamp. Life is so rich, she thought, even when a person only has the last few hundred hours to pass on a hospital bed, before they finally pull the curtain. She could hear the strained breathing of the old women on the bed right in front of her, though she chose to look away. For her, the world is pure at this moment. She was often praised of being an outstandingly good daughter to her mother, even by Hongkong’s standard, but she didn’t really think about it. Often what was on her mind was the extra stuff, stuff undone, as she was always looking to fix and improve. Last night she brought her mother herbal date chicken soup, which was hard to make to say the least, while the mother merely had a taste of it. Mother did approve though. To her, it was the obligation of love and loyalty; the obligation was to work yourself to the fullest. The reward was in itself. The mother was dying still, wasn’t she? She was dying faster by the say, and it made it difficult for the daughter to grasp the meaning of labor. As her lifetime labor was approaching a conclusion, it seemed to her that there was less of a divide between right or wrong. She wished that the mother just existed slightly longer, in this world, even if just on a hospital bed, even if just drifting in senseless dreams… The only meaning left, to her, was the feeling of existence.