A LETTER

If you are going on a long journey, please take along my letter. It needs to be sent to someone, and he is in the town where you are going. The town named silence. It has long black daylights and white nights.

You walk into the silence.

You tell yourself that you are not alone,

But before you walk into the dark, you still have solitude and fear.

Then you walk into the darkness, it is right there, Infiltrating and wrapping,

Engulfing and burring.

You are in the warm darkness,

Back to the womb.

You are floating on the water,

Sky the highest is held down

Down

Until you reach it at your fingertips

The grand curtain of the darkness is your warm blanket

You float forward,

Then you see the dim light. It is behind the blurred glass,

Blended with the darkness.

You see more and more lights,

They come together,

You haven't heard any sounds,

But see the din you are most familiar with.

The biggest and quietest clamor.

You know you are where you are

You see you are when you were young.

You see candles and rails

Tin box on the kitchen stove and given by a woman

You saw three greenhouses with lights on,

There are blooming daisies and jasmines

The brooch fragments you lost in the fine sand on the ground

You start to miss this place

When you haven't arrived

When you just arrived

You smell the salty sea breeze in the cold air.

You know that you have satisfied your crave.

You should go

You leave my letter,

Placed it on the rails, placed it in the river, placed it on the kitchen stove

Placed in the middle of a crossroad

There is a traffic light.

Waiting for the past.

You are integrated into the darkness,

Silence sinks into the darkness,

You can only see a little light like stars

They merge into one,

Then all the noise vanished into the viscous and dense darkness

You start to feel lonely again.

You start to write a letter to the town.

The town named silence. It has long black daylights and white nights

A PAINTING

Oil Painting & Museum Board

I stood in front of the greenhouse and looked at the stone steps in front of my feet. It is dusk, and the dim lights are in the greenhouse. The white shadow of the dark tree paves on the wall and divides the boundaries with the wind. The station is white, the pillars are black, the handrail is white, the steps are black, the shades are white, the streetlights are black, the ground is white, the stripes are black, the roof is white and the walls are black. He is standing there. His clothes are black and the gloves are white.

I saw the mailbox engulfed the railway, the railway passed through the silent factory, the factory missed the light tower, and the tower poked itself, into the market.

I want to see you.

So, I walked through the lonely market and into the crowded alley. The store moved from one end of the street to the other, and the fountain moved from outside the square to the inside. The barber took a step and moved to the bakery. The pastry chef's waving hand crossed the clock in the mall. I walked through stores, crossed the fountain in the black sunshine, crossed the swaying clock of the mall, and I headed into the post office, holding the letter for you.

I can walk through the silence merely within one step, and I can search for every corner of the town without a tiny glimpse of your studio.

Your studio is on the edge of the river, on the side of the greenhouse, at the end of the street, and in front of the light tower. I am familiar with your address, but I rarely find your attic. I attached flowers with my letter.

Those flowers, they were growing by the river, then climbed on the bank, and now they live in the greenhouse, under the toasty light, and next to you. And in my hand.

I am at your door.