I am a cloud floating in the sky, and the sky is contained within a jar. Each day, a part of me drizzles on dirt puddles, metal fences, and monoliths made of glass. Sometimes I knock on the heads of people, who are nailed to benches or gliding over coiling streets. On a damp, drizzly July day, no one bothers to look up. And there I go—from pipelines, drainages and sewages—to the open sea. Then, I find myself rocking on a train that slithers through the darkest part of the city. A man stands before me, a puffy existence in my nose. He does not have a face, like other passengers. Nine thousand seven hundred and fourteen days have passed since I began this journey, and my eyes are becoming hazy. I must do something to stay awake. As I read the man's posh gray checkered shirt, I see: cell1, cell2, cell3, cell4, cell5, ...
Once the painting is completed, death begins; “it” will sink endlessly and dissolve in the cold shards of ultramarine, which is infinite.
Some infer that the shards must contain an absolute sky. I prefer to dream that the surface represents a world reduced to a smooth vertical surface, like a slab of opaque glass. And when you look through the glass, you shall see birds singing as if they are hiccupping in a blue forest.
Now you might ask what is “it” to be exact, but to speak of it is to refuse.So I say, “It’s a landscape painting.”
當畫作完成，「它」的死亡也隨即而來；「它」將無止境地沉淪並溶化為冰冷無垠的群青色碎片。
有些人相信碎片中裝載著一個確切的天空。而我則想象畫作的表面是一個平滑垂直的世界，就像一塊䑃朧的玻璃。若透過這玻璃觀看，你會看到一群鳥兒在藍色的森林裏如打嗝般地歌唱。
也許，你現在會問「它」究竟是什麼，然而它的存在卻被言說拒絕。而我會說：「這是一幅風景畫。」
Sometimes
I imagine myself living an entirely different life
And still thinking about the same thing