Sounds Like Snowing
雪泥鸿爪



I stumble upon a Polaroid in a drawer. It has faded into nothing, the paper whispering its own silence. Whatever once flashed there has evaporated; events in my memory loosen, names drift, uncharted—a climate without coordinates.

During the thaw, I carried ten stainless canisters to Nagano. Each day I sealed them with a fleck of light, mostly mere traceries of my own eagerness. I tried to weigh the un-weighable, yet the very grammar of weighing already warps the thing-in-becoming. Time and dreams, like melt-water, infiltrate every gap, re-scribe, then abscond. The light and shadow crawl the curvature, answering every question with the exact contour of the asker.

Snow falls, layers, crushes, melts away. What remains is blank, compressed from every hour. Indistinct from one another, they will accrue only gravity and chill. Dare to touch again—events, gestures, mis-remembering—all the things will collapse into a nonchalant, unnameable matter.

Melting.
Watch: nothing explained, everything extended.
Don’t look down
and don’t look back.