*** 魷 魚 三 小 的 靠 杯 人 生 ***

On that particular day, as if no one had been to the desert. The cream melted in the pot. Chicken danced in blood. Fish pores.

(IMAGE BY CHI, 1996)

Pouring.


I stuck to my desk and made myself write. It wasn’t a pretty story. The pencil lead landed and headed into my vein. Sun burned. The pages opened. Scent of memory. Seeds sprouted. Again, I saw the dead frog squashed flat on the road, hardened and bleached by the sun. Swell again in the rain.