Saturday, September 10
THANKS FOR READING Daisies trail the highway, a rock falls and changes the landscape. I love eating crucian carp and half-cooked eggs. They're sweet. The scent of raw cilantro. I think mushrooms taste better than some meat. The textures of fruits are so cold and stiff. I love grapes. Mincing red poppies with sea salt, I never had it but I think I'll love it. I like acting, even to myself, only to myself. I dream a lot, without sleeping. Those dreams damage me. I rarely talk to my family, and whenever I do, I feel sorry for myself. I love my hands. I care about my face, which is prettier than many. One night, I dreamt of making love with a woman. It worries me, I think I'm ill. The other night, with a man. I know I cannot be cured. I masturbate with my left hand. And write poems with my right hand. My elbow is my pillow. Sometimes I wear sneakers that don't match my trousers. No one will notice. I like to be naked when I'm alone. My greatest fear is picking up the phone. The sun-drenched kitchen disappears when I enter my bathroom. I dislike dreaming while sleeping. I feel powerless in those dreams. I hurt many people, mostly girls. They deleted me from their phone books. I miss them in secret. I was hurt by people, most people. I forgive them in order to remember them. The lotus is at the border of becoming the water, failed by water. I love flowers, particularly those I cannot name, as if they have never been given a name. I love the shape of waves, which is always shaping, yet unshaped like my mother's hair, once braided by my father's hands, unbraided, by time. Each water bottle is a small buddha that invites light to pierce its boneless musing. The necklace that the sunset left on the terra-cotta roof is semisweet. The water is comfortable in the bottle as much as it would be in a pond. (Shanyang Fang)