Diary 2: The starry sky in the stagnant water is a projection of cosmic debris

Rent a room to store my body every night like a book

Needs a bookshelf

But the body requires constant motion and is not satisfied in storage

Rent another studio to store ideas

The moonlight is as far away as galaxies; imagine

In an instant – 12,000 kilometers – the world turns half away

I need a storage room to ease the farewell of my leaving.

Rent a fragment of dusk with a river,

Temporarily store recent thoughts

Take a ferry for $2.75

Secretly enjoy the shadow of stars falling on the river

In front of this river I miss another: I miss this moment in front of another splash

Sleepless at midnight, a hand avoids my touch

The bay is shallow as the ocean is deep

Summer waves swept away my sunglasses and hat

Early in the morning, the moonlight was shattered

The sunlight, rampant and dominating

Spring does not belong to us this year, but belongs to the sky, flowers and rain. I had a long dream. In it I was falling downwards from the clouds; falling into infinitely similar rainy nights. Flanked by boredom and doubt, I was searching for love in the virtual world, choosing a numb confrontation: a confrontation nothing more than an indulging in the illusion of nothingness. In this fruitless time, my heart twisted into pieces. One was thrown on the bed haphazardly. The other forcibly placed on the desk, and the rest spin leisurely in the twilight.

Different moments render different doses. Desires are not distributed evenly. Time is flatly divided under the stirring of moon and stars. Yesterday became the present. In this next revolution, as desires fade away, I reconcile with life. The body is covered in unconscious pain.

Seeing myself gradually slide into the distorted chaos of early spring, I couldn't stop my thinking from falling and floundering. I lost track of the time in my body. In the early summer of May, New York was still paralyzed; I couldn't operate my own mind. The setting sun hovered in the gap between the buildings, waiting for cars; a chaotic city penetrated by silence.

For many people, historical events are distant and blurry images in the mind, close to us with a strong sense of alienation. With the passing of years, we can’t tell where these remembrances come from. All remaining images defined vague memories. When we retell stories, we mistakenly think that we are participants. Participants and readers finally condense these events into pictures: a series of story-telling words in a gradually blurred memory. Memories are never continuous, like a broken mirror reflecting countless broken images, the starry sky in the stagnant water is a projection of cosmic debris. The depiction of time in my works is no longer a coherent space-time, but a dotted, diffuse, and romantic expression.

In July, New York was still under the cloud of the pandemic, and life was agitated by unexpected events. We are struggling people who, like dust, are easily cast off by sunlight. I tried to reflect the objective world in subjectivity.