Fitzgerald once wrote in The Great Gatsby, "In the city, there are only the pursued, pursuing, the busy and the tired."
I see the stagnation of the sculpture as a disruption and silent protest against the city. Beyond his rigid eyes made of iron and fiberglass, there is a naked man who does not suffer. He is in the world that we are living in, yet separated by pieces of glass, concrete and metal. He declares his position on top of everything, like a foreigner colonizing the land under his feet. His standing posture represents nothing but everything—the long queues of people coiling around bus stops and MTR stations; the salesperson standing on his one leg after a long day, the person who is waiting for his food in disposable lunch boxes; and me, I see myself standing as well, naked in front of a glass mirror. What am I? Where am I standing in this city?