Text Author: Su
Sound Based on Text: Cheap Crap Community
Sound Description: Su
Symbol Based on Description: Cheap Crap Community
Image Combining Description and Symbol: Su
Text: Su, 06.2020
0. Prelude#
Consciousness is the rustling sea, H is a child picking up waves on the beach, sleeping in a sublime sandcastle, the sound of laughter drifting into dreams with the wind;
Between the wind and the sea sleeps a grain of sublime sand, consciousness picks up waves from the ocean;
The sand picks up a sleeping sea from sublime consciousness,
The sea blows dreams, laughs, the wind is the waves, yes, his laughter rustles rustles rustles.
Sound Based on Text: CCC, 03.16.2021
Sound Description: Su, 03.17.2021
Listening while writing with headphones on: the initial whimper or hum has a vast and dark spatial feeling, more concrete than imagined, like the sea at midnight; when the sound fluctuates, it reminds me of the waves, there’s a feeling of talking in one’s sleep, a sharper “wuauwuau……” sound reminds me of seagulls. Then as it approaches a pause, when a deeper vibrating sound grows stronger, the image seems to be filled with noise, a bit unstable, starting to become abstract. When the sound rises again, the space feels more abstract, hard to judge whether it’s indoors or outdoors, perhaps more like indoors because of a sense of enclosure, something vibrating within the closed space, hitting the edges, creating an unsettling feeling; around 3:00, the “wuwiewu……” sound seems to open up the scene again, becoming boundless, reminiscent of brainwaves oscillating. Then there’s a sound like something being crushed, quite specific, unable to connect with previous associations, perhaps like someone turning over in their sleep? Because it’s specific, it seems to wake me up a bit, then I hear “rustle rustle rustle……”, and the following segment of sound feels drier, lacking the sense of waves, just dry wind, the color no longer dark, like a very gloomy daytime gray that is neither dark nor bright.
Symbol Based on Description: CCC, 03.25.2021
| / ʃ / |
|---|
Image Combining Description and Symbol: Su, 03.29.2021
Text: Su, 06.2020
1. Do Amputees Want to Feel Phantom Pain?#
A canal runs from UCL to Camden, dead fish and wild ducks with flower heads float on the water. A whiff of fishy smell occasionally drifts from under the wooden bridge, near the arch bridge in Camden, the fishy smell begins to be replaced by the dizzying scent of marijuana.
The wooden planks tremble violently underfoot when bicycles pass, the bodies of those walking towards the sunset rise and fall with the golden waves. I hope real death is as beautiful as Ophelia floating on the water—weightless without swelling—she is a freshly picked bouquet thrown into the reed-filled river, then slowly dispersing with the waves.
Φ
An astronaut with an injured left arm drifts away from the spaceship, blown away by an imperceptible wind. Another astronaut has also injured the front half of his right hand; to avoid drifting away, he tears off his entire right hand.
Two of my classmates, a boy and a girl, both lost their left arms in the accident. They had just undergone amputation and had not yet gotten out of bed. One person says to the other, “You need to prepare yourself mentally.” The other replies, “I can accept it.”
Two actors referred to as crows have black wings. They have been hijacked by a group of people and are being dragged along the ground. To prevent their injured legs from rotting from the friction, the crows' lower bodies are wrapped in straw mats and plastic bags. One of the hijackers deliberately steps on the crow's calf wrapped in plastic, and he lets out a silent scream.
Φ
A girl on the playground is playing with a large scissor-shaped scooter. Not only is she riding the scooter, but she is also wearing roller skates, and while gliding, she is holding a computer in her hands to write a paper. Suddenly, her scooter flies out from in front of me, swooping across the playground like a boomerang and flying back. It was red when it flew out, and blue when it returned, indicating that the scooter is controlled by magnetism.
A shout comes from the road outside, where a crowd has gathered, and the police have arrived. It turns out the scissor-shaped scooter hit someone, cutting him in half. The owner of the scooter is very scared and doesn’t dare to go over. I volunteer to accompany her because I’m curious about what happened to that person. As I look over her hesitant shoulder, I catch a glimpse of the injured person. He is cut in two, but no blood is flowing; his body looks like it’s made of white clay, soft and loose. Someone nearby says, “There’s hardly any blood; he might still be saved.”
The upper half of his body has already been placed on a stretcher, while the legs are still on the ground. “Put your legs up,” people tell him. I ask the onlookers what happened, but they don’t understand how he ended up like this. They guess it was suicide.
The vivid memory rising feels like phantom pain. The illusory traces left by non-existent things are painful, as if a part of the soul has been cut away, with cellular tissue surrounding the wound pathologically proliferating into scars.
Memory, a remnant of an illusory body, is useless, suggesting the eternally lost in a purely negative way. Do amputees want to feel phantom pain? Do they want to always remember the feeling of that hand, that leg?
Φ
At the corner of the stairs, there is a huge “X-ray mirror.” We all avoid looking at it as we rush down the stairs, but we can’t escape it each time. I see one of the girls’ lungs in the mirror, a mass of black shadow, almost completely melted away. I think she has lung cancer. Indeed, we are about to accompany her to the hospital to install some artificial blood vessels for ventilation.
The stairs are long; this is the only old high-rise building in the community, called the tower. As I pass the window, I see that it is almost dawn; the sky is still filled with the last bit of mist, and in the distance, it is already a pure azure blue, that neatly shaped sky embedded in the corridor like blue glass. On the 11th floor, there lives someone who has been on artificial blood vessels for a while; we are going to see if he is still alive.
Φ
Elizabeth is an exceptionally large infant, like a baby inflated to adult size. She wants to jump from one cabinet to another, but when she lifts her leg, the cabinet in front shifts forward a bit, and she falls. The fallen cabinet crushes her, splitting her apart. A whole chunk of flesh on her pubis flips up, like a piece of meat. But our quirky task force has just resolved a problem and can request a reward, so we ask for Elizabeth’s flesh to be sewn back. Now she looks less terrifying, just with a wound on her belly that looks like a surgical stitch from a sex reassignment surgery. Later, when she is illuminated by a beam of light, she shrinks back to a normal baby, and the wound disappears.
There is a virtual reality game where if you fail a level, your real body will also be distorted. We find a way to cheat; we can forcibly exit just before our body is about to deform, and then re-enter the game to eliminate the wrong options. Elizabeth also wants to try, but she doesn’t know how to cheat, and as a result, she gets distorted. It looks like her head has twisted 180 degrees backward, her face turned to her back; but upon closer inspection, it’s not just her head; her entire body has twisted into a peculiar, indescribable shape like a spiral staircase. We must clear the level for her to restore her.
Φ
I return to middle school, where I spend two days. During class, a boy in the back suddenly falls, covered in blood; I turn around and see his shattered eyes and bleeding face. I think he is like me, someone who should have graduated long ago but for some reason is back here. The homeroom teacher walks over to the scene of the accident with a displeased look, glancing at his bloody, mangled appearance and disdainfully says, “Looks like you still need a homeroom teacher.”
I find this scene absurd and unreal, planning to leave, so after class, I go to the homeroom teacher’s office. “So, how’s everything?” she asks me. “Pretty good,” I say, “I’m happy to see everyone again, but it’s really strange to be back here…” Before I finish the last sentence, I feel the surrounding environment and my body begin to twist, as if being turned inside out. As soon as I say “strange,” the emergency evacuation mechanism is triggered. The homeroom teacher tries to stop me, “Wait…” Before she can finish, I have already disappeared.
Sound Based on Text: CCC, 03.30.2021
Sound Description: Su, 03.30.2021
Thinking of something to write: this one is relatively long, but it forms a whole that is difficult to segment and has many details constantly changing, like a swarm of bees or birds flying in a flurry, always a mass but continuously changing shape and formation. Now recalling the overall impression at KFC: I remember many waves of sounds like something being thrown. There are many different textures of sounds being tossed up and then falling down (this action is also like a flock of birds flying left and right), some in the mass are rough like sand, grainy, while others are like fabric, a whole piece being shaken up, creating a gust of wind; mixed in are many sharp things, shiny sharp nails, thumbtacks, and paperclips, making the sound of small metal objects colliding, a large handful spilling onto the ground. These things rise and fall like in the action of sifting grain, while some things move close to the ground, sometimes scraping along.
Then going back to listen to the details: some buzzing, wriggling little bugs, cleared away by a blank, pure sound. Many granular things are rattling… A gust of wind rises, some sharp things are scraped back and forth in the wind, like a large string of scattered blades and keychains. Metal scraping against something, the wind is still blowing in waves… turning into the sound of metal scraping. Many tiny things are hard to describe, something is scraping on the ground, with a lot of resistance and the ground is not smooth… there are tentacles quickly whipping around in the air.
It turns into the sound of throwing sand, like grains being thrown up and falling down, the things being thrown up become more and more varied, complex, and unclear blocky objects. Sharp metal brakes, something flies by quickly, too fast to know what it is; something collapses, with whips or tentacles quickly swinging up.
It seems like something is lying in wait, lying in wait in a gray-white nothingness, waiting for the right moment to act, suddenly extending its tentacles to grab, with a large and fierce motion. In the background world, there is a rumbling sound, like a mountain moving. The hollow cavity seems to speak like a cave, its mouth particularly large, emitting the sound of wind. There are artificial sounds like ambulance sirens, sometimes near and sometimes far, intermittent.
The hollow cavity starts to breathe, burp, possibly with bad breath, accompanied by small buzzing sounds like bacteria breeding in cavities. Some chaotic sounds like triggering mechanisms in a game, a large mass gradually forms and then ah—fills the entire space, making it seem very terrifying, then turns into some small things, gathering into a mass again, with sounds like game background music ringing in the back…
Waiting for something to approach the critical point, it is stirring something faster and faster, then suddenly like falling out of a hole, being spat out into the universe, it opens up. A big mouth seems to close again.
Symbol Based on Description: CCC, 03.31.2021
| / tsə/ |
|---|
Image Combining Description and Symbol: Su, 04.03.2021
Text: Su, 06.2020
2. Should I Advise Him to Leave or to Stay?#
Preparing to stay up all night, but falling asleep before midnight, waking up at four in the morning.
The air in the room feels frozen, and the wind outside is hurried and awkward. I feel as if I am being urged by something, throwing myself into bed without even taking off my clothes, turning off the light, I see the shadow of what is urging me, the dim morning light.
—The sky is still filled with the last bit of damp mist, and in the distance, it is already a pure azure blue.
The color of the morning is calming. But restlessness, disjointed thoughts are tossing and turning in my mind. Today I did nothing again. This spring, my will is like drifting up and down, scattered like willow catkins.
This plant constitutes my body. I find that there are no willows in L City.
Drowsily, I fall into a dream, my unshuttable thoughts shaking my unclosable eyes. I suddenly open my eyes and see the locust flowers on the trees outside have already bloomed, clusters of pale white, ruthlessly illusory.
Day and night rush by, birds chirp sharply, urged by mating desires.
The fragmented thoughts that my neck cannot support again tiredly throw themselves into the sea of the pillow.
I am fed up with living a life where I only interact with my own head, whether awake or asleep. Whether writing or dreaming, I cannot touch that dazzling and amorphous world.
A single seed, a not yet ripe seed on a branch broken by blooming flowers. Lying in the spring soil, I wait for decay, beside me lies last year’s old seeds blown down by the wind, still wriggling in their shells.
I am sick of my reclusiveness. The neighbor’s lifeless alarm clock urges me to hide back into sleep.
When waking life is monotonous to the point of resembling sleep, dreams gradually become clearer and richer. I even envy my dreams because they possess a freedom of cutting and combining experiences that the waking me has long lost—the ability to fabricate. The ability to be free.
Φ
Many years ago in a dream, a criminal group kidnapped a group of my super-powered classmates, and I went to investigate their disappearance. I was on a tropical island, where I met a missing person, H. He didn’t seem to be imprisoned, nor did he appear panicked. I curiously asked him, “What’s the deal with superpowers?” He explained that the most common superpower is flying, lifting off the ground with both feet, arms stretched forward, controlling direction like holding a steering wheel. I tried it, and indeed I flew up, but I couldn’t control the direction well, and when I stopped, I landed on my butt, but at least I flew. From then on, I could fly.
Getting off at the “Raw Banana” station to go home, I didn’t recognize the way. The vague impression of familiarity here was gradually fading. I decided to fly up to scout the way. I flew over a quiet shopping center and through a grove. In the open square in front of the shopping center, I saw a middle-aged man, and he was also flying. This was the first time I saw someone else flying the same way I did. I was surprised and asked him, “Do you know why we can fly?” As I spoke, I suddenly thought of an answer and said, “It might have to do with our perception of time; time feels particularly slow to us—what I mean is, if every lift and drop of a step is very slow, it’s like floating in the air for a while. Time has turned into eternity to some extent.” “But if that’s really the case,” I said, “we can only fly very slowly.”
Later, I got lost in the woods and encountered a group of people engaged in environmental surveying. They said there used to be a stream here, but the water had been blocked by garbage. They were going the same way as me and could take me there. “Is it straight ahead?” I asked them, and they said no.
I thought if I couldn’t get out of this area before the familiar impression faded, I would never escape. At that moment, a bus stopped in front of us, and a large group of tourists got off, some even bringing tents. One of the surveyors said, “They are too naive.” What he meant was: they think they can find a place to stay overnight here, but they have no idea how bad the situation is.
Φ
Some people forcibly brought him into a dilapidated building. He thought it was some trick by real estate developers, like finding an excuse to lure people in with gifts, not letting them leave without spending. He asked where the exit was, and the answer he got was similar to, the exit hasn’t been built yet. Looking out the window, it was a ruin within a ruin, looking like it had been abandoned for a long time.
He walked for a long time, always in a complex indoor spatial structure, always at night. The people here are all very tall, and he feels as if the angle of being watched is as if he is already lying on the ground. A young man with black hair and an older man with blonde hair look at him with sympathetic eyes, as if some unfortunate event has befallen him, and only he hasn’t noticed. He learns the names of those two people but can’t remember them, and he vaguely feels that he can’t find the exit because he keeps going in circles, forgetting everything from the previous round; thus, the residents here feel sympathy for this person trapped in short-term memory.
In any case, he can be sure that the residents here know some things he doesn’t, certain things that are basic knowledge for them but completely strange and incredible to him. A vague, indescribable yet undeniable sense of mystery endows this dilapidated building with a crawling—instinctual, multi-legged, self-sufficient—self-awareness. The dark corridor infinitely extends and branches out, not resembling real space at all. He begins to doubt whether he is dreaming. In past dreams, once he started to doubt, it would trigger an emergency evacuation mechanism, and the environment would become thin and unstable, but this world remains solid.
He can stay; this black building without an exit is not only boundless, but its potential lifespan far exceeds his. The people here are friendly to him; although they hide secrets, it’s not that they intentionally don’t tell him, it’s just that they are so different in some ways that they can’t communicate this. I can stay, he tells himself, but if I completely immerse myself in this side, I will really walk down this corridor forever. He has no choice but to ask a few residents for help: “I seem to be stuck in a dream and can’t get out, I don’t know what to do.” He doesn’t know what kind of answer he is hoping for, whether to advise him to leave or to stay? But they just say, “How could that be? This isn’t a dream.” Time and space begin to compress in a cycle; he must leave here. At a staircase, he lets himself fall into the darkness where the steps have not yet formed. In the last moment before disappearing, he hears them calling his name.
Sound Based on Text: CCC, 04.15.2021
Sound Description: Su, 05.04.2021
_ (Black viscous substance, bubbling)
Metal birds chirping, starry eyes sparkling
(Wrinkled darkness squeezing out bubbles, wrinkles, slowly compressing folds) along with an egg being laid_
In a deeper, more expansive cave, there are sparkling tiny things
A room composed of echoes: electronic sounds of the game, according to some unknown artificial rules,
One after another...
The wind whooshes through the tubular cavity, deep space and many small segments of artificial objects alternate
The space speaks: a massive amorphous depth vibrates, drowning everything
A series of impatient bumps cut through the space
Repeating, taking turns blocking the front
……The morning birds attempt to pose a question
Is it this, or that?
(Flapping wings causing slight tremors in space)
The morning birds try to answer the ambiguous question
This, or that?
The vibrations gradually start running
Ambiguous answers form electronic fences, unfolding one by one
Stable rhythms cross them one by one
(Advance or stay in place? On a treadmill?)
The tremors gather particles, forming increasingly heavy masses
Stones crush the ground, clack clack clack clack
Suddenly a large cavity opens
Symbol Based on Description: CCC, 05.04.2021
| / ʃaː / |
|---|
Image Combining Description and Symbol: Su, 05.11.2021
Text: Su, 06.2020
3. Unknown Objects#
Suicide cannot solve problems; it kills the problem.
If a person is more inclined to solve problems rather than kill them, he must, to some extent, love his problems, right? I’m afraid I am losing that love. Losing interest in pain is equivalent to death, while also losing the will and character of many people, ultimately rendering that person so devoid of life that they cannot die.
Sometimes I feel that the thing preventing me from dying is the same thing that prevents me from living. She is talking to a young clerk at the fruit shop. The clerk says, “How can you stay home every day? Find a job; being idle for too long will make you lazy, and eventually, you won’t be able to do anything.” I can’t do anything anymore—one thought says I have ruined myself. If I have ruined myself (my mind is becoming emptier), I must kill myself before my mind becomes so empty that I cannot die.
Is loving one’s problems narcissism? Does love for problems hinder one from solving them? Sometimes I guess I might be deliberately making myself sick to understand the psychoanalytic theory about illness. I turn myself into a case. I can only understand concepts through my own experience; if I can’t find a corresponding object in experience, I need to spend some time developing and creating some experiences. But this time, the concept I swallowed is too large for me to digest, it is killing me from the inside. Choking, unable to breathe, unable to endure life. Every day, every moment feels exhausting, falling into an open night behind me, I fall into darkness, deeper darkness, with less and less light… About a year ago, I still had a bit of what is called “a sense of reality,” thinking my predicament was just my imagination, that things were actually fine. But now I estimate that “reality” isn’t good either. I no longer have that common sense that makes life seem tolerable, “it’s okay.” I have many fleeting feelings, I keep guessing, forming notions about myself and my surroundings, these feelings and notions keep changing, and before I can capture any of them to write them down, they change; but if I give up writing, letting the feeling of exhaustion sweep me away, I and the surrounding reality become even more elusive. I am confused, like a newly hatched bird seeing him, fascinated by him, lured by him. I can hardly read any books, but I keep reading about him, reading articles about him, searching for psychoanalytic articles online. Sometimes I feel very sad; when I write this sentence, I feel very sad, I want to cry, crying without a clear reason, due to pure and blank despair, the emotion of being devoid of content. I call his name, I call him in silence, unable to make a sound, except for a question mark, I can’t say anything else.
I shout like this: “?”
I shout loudly like this: “——”
“(What am I?)”
I cannot form a feeling about this reality. Or it gives me a feeling that is too clear, too overwhelming for me to resist. What is reality? Reality is me living with her, like waste, unable to do anything but eat, drink, relieve myself, and sleep. She says, “Spending money to send you to school is a waste,” she says, “You were already like that back then, and you still want to continue? You should know it’s impossible.” — Yes, impossible, but if that’s the case, then nothing is possible. I easily push impossible thoughts to extremes: my existence itself is impossible. How can living be possible? How can a corpse pretend to be in the form of a living person, how can it cover up signs and smells of decay? How many days, how many hours can it pretend until everyone around recognizes its hopeless death? Every second is impossible, but why am I still lingering? Shouldn’t I have died long ago? Shouldn’t my flesh have rotted away to reveal white bones? Becoming ashes and dust, a part of inorganic matter, a gust of wind, a burnt comet, and a dying star, a contracting red giant and a cold white dwarf, a starving black hole, surrounded by amorphous nebulae, scattered with fragments of worlds that died before they even formed. At the café at the school gate, I am still using the student discount, fearing they will discover my student card has expired for over a year, but fortunately, they didn’t find out.
Φ
Looking out from the hotel room, it is very dark outside, as if a thunderstorm is brewing.
When she returned, she found me masturbating, saying I was xx—she used a word I had never heard before, I guessed it meant lewd, but the word sounded classical and beautiful. She, who never wears makeup, was wearing heavy makeup at that moment, leaning towards me with a pretentious, erotic posture.
I told her a strange dream, in which the word “hair” also has the meaning of “to exalt something but not immerse oneself in it,” as a verb; moreover, “x hair x” refers to the hypocritical act of exalting something, as a noun. As soon as I finished speaking, she began to kiss me, a frenzied kiss, a lewd kiss, an xx kiss, whispering in my ear as she kissed, “Mouth, mouth…”
Φ
While I was masturbating in bed, I touched my clitoris and it turned into a finger. Lifting the quilt, I saw a circle of hands growing on my belly, five of them, the exposed parts varying in size, uncertain whether they were fingers or toes, possibly remnants of hands that had degenerated, with a row of curled nails. In the kitchen, she was wearing a cropped top, cooking eggplant, and I saw a circle of hands growing on her waist too—less obvious, but undoubtedly five of something. I relaxed a bit; it seems everyone has hands growing on their bellies, I just never noticed before. They indeed aren’t as prominent and exaggerated as they first appeared; if you don’t look closely, you might think they are just a wrinkle on the belly. This row of extra hands has no sense of touch; the nerves and muscles have probably degenerated, but when I sit up, they sway up and down irregularly with my body, as if some primitive motor nerves still remain. Looking at the nails on the hands makes my belly itch faintly, feeling a bit uncomfortable.
Φ
In the afternoon, I left my grandmother’s house, and it was pitch black outside, as if a thunderstorm was brewing. She followed me, saying she wanted to teach at my school. She wrote an email to the school but didn’t receive a reply; she asked me to take her there to negotiate directly with the principal. Her tone was exceptionally confident, almost resolute, the resolute expression in her eyes shining with a mad light like polished stones. I ignored her and quickened my pace; she kept following me, pounding my back hard. I grabbed her hand to prevent her nails from scratching me, shouting for help. The police came over, and seeing me holding her hand, they told me to let her go. I had no choice but to release her arm. In front of the police, she didn’t continue to attack me, and I hurriedly ran away, but soon she chased after me again.
Φ
While helping C and her colleagues transport goods, I was stopped by a group of people who wanted us to strip and check if we were hiding anything. Many people were caught, squatting by the wall waiting for inspection. Across from us, behind a glass wall, I saw a man being molded, reshaped into a woman. The machine first pinched out new nipples, then pinched out finger-like things on his belly. He looked very painful, not fatal pain, but the pain gradually accumulated with the machine’s movements. His body looked like it was made of white clay, very easy to shape. When I saw him again after the inspection, he had already become a beautiful woman, with deep blue hair, wrapped in bandages to bind and fix the shape. He or she was still being pinched, each pinch hurt so much that he wanted to avoid it.
Φ
I noticed strange patterns were printed on my hands, a large pattern on the back of my hand, and small patterns on my knuckles. They looked like printed newspaper illustrations, with a colorful landscape painting as the background, and outlined figures in the foreground. Probably a small advertisement was imprinted on my hand while I was asleep. Usually, such small advertisements fade away in no time. I asked H, “When will they completely disappear?” H casually replied, “Maybe they will never disappear.” On H’s computer keyboard, Chinese characters were written, each key a character, forming a short poem. I read it once, but many characters were incomprehensible; I guessed those were recently invented colloquialisms.
Φ (Aha)
Leaving the water room, I came to a small courtyard with a fake mountain in the middle. Many people sat on the fake mountain like monkeys, whispering about how to get down. You could jump down, but I was a bit scared: the side of the mountain was very smooth, the slope like an excessively steep slide, sliding down might lead to a vertical drop. The bottom of the mountain looked dangerous too; the water was only a shallow layer, with large stones underneath. A few terrorists surrounded us, threatening to drive us into a gray building; I guessed they planned to set it on fire and burn everyone alive.
I sneaked back to the water room through a small path behind the fake mountain. There stood an underdeveloped terrorist who wanted to marry me because I resembled him. He first asked me a religious question, then ordered me to take out the trash, and I complied. His projection screen behind him displayed scenes from his childhood: at night, his father dragged a small figure running in the snow. It seemed he had been dragged for many years, rarely eating or sleeping. Perhaps these experiences twisted him from a human into something not human.
He took me into a gray hall, with red walls, flames roaring, warming the hall. At that moment, he transformed into a thieving gypsy boy, his fingers extending towards me, splitting, nails periodically falling off and growing back. Some nails were flesh-colored, while others were adorned with exquisite, intricate patterns, endlessly. The periodically shedding womb of the inner wall is a hall, because life is too full, it has to overflow continuously, generously discarding the best things to make room for new things—he is such a thing. Am I also like him? His nails almost pierce me; I grab his hand, trying to push away these two terrifying, tree-like flesh branches, but the nails continue to curl and extend, the twisted mysterious smile infinitely approaching me.
In fear, I shout a word: “Aha.” Aha is a nickname for a character in a movie, sounding completely unrelated to this person’s full name, like a sound without a reference. Can a meaningless name address a nameless monster? But the smile in front remains unchanged, “Calling me Aha is useless,” he seems to see through my attempt to name him, “because Aha is also my result.”
He raises many pigeons on his balcony. Every time I go to his house, I stare at the pigeons on the balcony for a long time. The pigeon cage is very high, and I can’t reach it. One time he lifted me up, letting me reach for the abandoned cabinet that emitted a faint smell of bird droppings. But I was a bit afraid to touch those big birds laying eggs; as my hand approached, they nervously flapped their wings desperately.
One time someone asked me to write the word “pigeon,” and I wrote the left half of “合” as “客” or “各.” I wrote it many times, knowing it was wrong, but I just couldn’t change it; every time it was “客 - 鸟.” The shape of this nonexistent character frightened me, as if it forcibly covered my original impression of this character.
Sound Based on Text: CCC, 05.24.2021
Sound Description: Su, 06.13.2021
Ah, floating and unsteady female voice, this is the impure tremor in prayer, a kind of terrifying daze. It keeps scratching your belly, you laugh more and more weakly and tiredly, the incessant laughter is a sign of your torment, it is such laughter.
A smaller, younger monster gradually reveals itself from the trembling voice, the impure disorder creates an overly cheerful tone; it is curious, but it understands everything, especially all the things that don’t need to be known. It approaches you with this excess of threatening innocence; it is the prototype of the kind of monster you imagine lurking in the dark. No, it doesn’t approach you; it may just be breathing at a distance, now its breath spreads into an increasingly long escape ray, it moves away.
Half has retreated into the darkness, its last figure squeezes into the disappearing seam, emitting a sharp voice like a long shadow dragged under the door… The part of it that is close to humanity, that is the monster, has disappeared; it becomes space, becomes a mixture of neutral light and shadow, becomes the elongated lines in space, becomes the surface scraped out when the lines are elongated, becomes space itself, becomes the hoarse, howling of space, the alienation of space, becomes the noise emitted when space digitally deletes its bytes, becomes a swarm of bytes jumping away… Finally, the seam also closes itself, retracting its last tail, leaving nothing.
Symbol Based on Description: CCC, 06.16.2021
| / ʃie / |
|---|
Image Combining Description and Symbol: Su, 06.25.2021
Text: Su, 06.2020
4. It Definitely Can’t Float Up#
I have left your city. Staying there does nothing. I take away a large suitcase, also carrying a bedding roll, very much like the day I graduated from university. The first thing I do when I go back is to visit X and Z at school. The way back to school is still the same, the trees next to the boiler room are topped with summer’s lush crowns, the incessant calls of cicadas come in waves like heavy heat. On the way, I receive a text from D.M., saying he wants me to help him proofread an article and see if I have made any progress during this time. I ignore him. In the classroom, D.M. is teaching them; I don’t want to go in, so I sit under the basketball hoop on the playground, waiting for the class bell to ring. After a while, X and Z come out; both look a bit thinner than before, I guess this reflects their recent diligent efforts. As for me, I wrap myself in something like a quilt, trying to talk to them like before. For a moment, I wish I could faint, quickly ending this scene, just like when I was a child running too hard, I would let myself fall to stop.
After returning home from school, several relatives talk to me about my deceased grandfather and grandmother, as if they just died not long ago. I make a gesture indicating I understand what they did in their lifetime. After these relatives leave, only my mom and I are left at home. I remember today is Thursday, so tomorrow is Friday, the day I see you. I need to hurry back to your city. I go to find my luggage; my mom says there are several notebooks in the big room, and also your computer. But I vaguely feel that going back isn’t that easy. At this moment, I remember we are no longer in the same country; I have to take a plane to go back to see you, which means I can never see you again. I haven’t realized that I have already left; I clearly wasn’t mentally prepared to leave. I stand on the balcony, trying to recall what happened before, but I can’t remember anything, only that there are seven buttons at your door, your room is the fifth one, and the note next to the button doesn’t have your name. On the edge of my left front vision, there is a small house; it seems I have seen it somewhere. I try hard to recall and realize it is my former residence in L City. A wave of despair and helplessness surges up, and I cry out silently.
Φ
I go to the beach with my roommates; the beach is blocked off, and there is an entrance fee. We find a gap and sneak in. But the other side of the fence suddenly turns into an indoor space, surrounded by cement walls, with no water, and the entrance is blocked. We are locked in a hallway filled with the smell of paint.
When learning to swim, the coach wants us to jump directly into the water. We almost sink. He throws over a life ring. But the life ring has many holes, like cheese that mice love to eat in cartoons. At least it’s better than nothing—I think, but I know it definitely can’t float.
When people are soaking in the river, suddenly a flood occurs. The flood is pure white, I don’t know what industrial waste has dyed the river this white. People start to panic and swim upstream to find cleaner places. Upstream, there is an opening where a tributary flows in, and the water there is blue and clear, a normal color. People swim over, wanting to wash off the toxic water on them.
Φ
In the middle is a large swimming pool. There is a slope on the left side of the pool bottom, so the flow rate of the water varies throughout the pool. If you jump into the water from the left corner, the water will push you around the entire pool. I float in the whirlpool with a straw life ring. In the direction of the teaching building entrance, some people gather by the pool; some can already swim, and some are there to practice. They put their clothes in the lockers next to the door, one person per compartment, marked with their names. I used to have a compartment too, but it has probably been reclaimed. After all, I haven’t practiced swimming; I’m just floating with the life ring.
I climb out of the pool, wrap myself in a towel, and sit at the side of the pool away from the other students. A former classmate and her mother happen to pass by this narrow path; I have nowhere to hide, so I have to greet them. But they don’t see me; their attention is drawn to a couple kissing in another direction. Only after they have passed me do they realize someone was there, and they start talking about me: “What is she doing here?” “Is she still studying?” “But I didn’t see her at the opening ceremony…” “Time really flies! So many years…” The last sentence is said with a nostalgic tone, recalling the days when we were classmates. She met her current husband at school, recently just got married, and both are teaching at a nearby elementary school. They decide to come back and ask me how I’m doing now, but I can’t say a word. I can’t say anything like those who can swim and study swimming seriously; I think, how can I talk about the days spent floating with a life ring to someone still experiencing time? In fear, I drop the towel and jump into the water. I don’t know where my straw ring has drifted off to.
Φ (Image 1)
I am in a gallery with friends watching a segment of video. It is said that the content of the video varies according to the viewer; it is a projection of the viewer’s mind. I worry that nothing will appear on my screen, at most some meaningless vague images will float by. But when I stare at the screen alone, a story begins to unfold on the screen, like a short animated film I have seen before, telling of a city that keeps building higher on its own ruins: as the buildings rise higher, the lower levels gradually become abandoned. The bottom of the city looks like a dilapidated factory, the buildings resemble concrete towers, the tops far from the ground, almost invisible. Someone stands on a tower looking out the window; this figure is as dull in color as the tower. Later, he jumps out the window and falls. I think his act of jumping out the window completes the logical chain of this story, “falling is a return, the only conceivable connection to the abyss’s ground,” I summarize.
After the story ends, a guide takes me into a hidden room, welcoming me to join a religious group. Each member of this group has a master, and she, the one who brought me here, is my master. She pokes my chest and neck with a wooden stick, poking a bit painfully, but according to their doctrine, this is a gesture of friendliness. She shows me the rules written on the wall, asking me to memorize them. Her tone is also gentle and friendly, but I know I must answer cautiously; if I inadvertently overlook some hidden rule, I will be beaten—though in their view, being beaten is also a friendly gesture.
The rules room connects to another room, where their leader sits, looking very much like a cult leader in a movie. He is talking to my friend T. It seems he is also a new member. Somehow, I feel disappointed that T is here; I think someone as opinionated as him shouldn’t be attracted to such an absurd religion of masters. I go over and pat him on the shoulder, loudly saying, “What are you doing here?” Then I lower my voice and say to him, “I’m just here temporarily—listen, this is just a stage in the process, not the destination.” This remark reminds me of the argument he had with Z before. That day Z said that this society has never really changed, always looking pretty much the same, and there won’t be any difference in the future. But he said, “Which generation has not experienced great upheaval in their lifetime? Our generation will definitely experience one too.” I worry that T has forgotten what he said back then and want to remind him.
Φ
An unknown number calls, and I answer. “Hello?” It’s a college roommate. The music in the café is too loud, so I go downstairs to listen to the phone. N is speaking loudly on the stairs, his voice sharp and urgent, a stark contrast to his usual quiet demeanor: “You said you wanted a revolution; where is the revolution?” “I’m not interested in politics anymore,” I say, “I just want to fix myself first.” He looks confused, as if he doesn’t quite understand what I mean, so I repeat it. His expression turns blank, and he turns away, no longer speaking. “Why are you interested in politics?” I call out to him. He vaguely says he heard some “local news,” some real and specific things happened, and he can’t be bothered to explain it to me; he has lost interest in talking to me.
The stairs to the second floor are steep; I follow behind him, feeling very tired, almost unable to lift my feet, so I start crawling on my knees. This staircase resembles the ones in a teaching building or a hospital, upright and bright, with white walls and green bottoms. At the corner of the stairs, there is a poster about various diseases in cats. It mentions that some rare cats can turn to stone, and there’s a cat with black spots that can disappear into thin air, with a picture of a dragon fruit.
The death of a Foxconn worker who jumped off a building has social significance. His death is meaningful from a societal perspective, although this meaning has nothing to do with the already deceased. “If I go work at Foxconn for two months and then die, will my death be more meaningful?” Such thoughts make me hate myself.
Today, I rode a shared bike, wandering around the city, not wanting to enter any indoor spaces, not wanting to stop, not wanting to sit down. It’s as if the emptiness inside me must be compensated by aimless wandering; my empty heart can only get close to the neutrality of fleeting perceptions.
Φ
I am on my way to school with two friends, O and M, when M meets another friend, N, and they start chatting. They are discussing topics I’m not familiar with, and I feel a bit nervous, but not overly so, because there are three of us, and I don’t need to answer anything. The three of us walk out of the teaching building side by side, and the steps in front lead down to an empty place, with a poorly grown dark green lawn in the distance. I feel like I’ve seen this scene somewhere before. I think it’s from a novel by Joyce—his first novel, even earlier than “Dubliners.” M is Stephen, and I am another character in the novel. This feeling gradually makes me less nervous. The three of us hold hands as we walk down the stairs, I am in the front, and M is in the middle. At this moment, they mention the spelling of a French word; M casually spells it, gets it wrong, and N sharply points it out. At this moment, N is Mulligan, and “Stephen” feels uncomfortable due to his accusation. I find an excuse for the misspelling, and M immediately agrees with my reasoning, as if to quickly escape the awkward situation. For a moment, the strength with which he holds my right hand seems to increase.
Sound Based on Text: CCC, 07.22.2021
Sound Description: Su, 07.23.2021
Sand-like large particles of current. Tuning frequency, tuning frequency, bringing out some fine sand grains. Cutting into the blank waiting, a complete vacant field. Tuning frequency, tuning frequency, creating overlapping vacuums that fluctuate up and down. Then reinsert the previous channel, bringing in some fragmented tremors. Now let a series of vacuums and rising sand alternate, weaving a repetitive pattern; let the rising fragments become punctuation marks separating the empty field, creating something countable. Sand grains gather into rain, sometimes dense, sometimes retreating into the background.
Cutting into the blank waiting again, the vacant field. Ready, let a wave of more intense sand rain come in. Hitting hard, waves rising. It accompanies the rhythm of tuning frequency, entering a frantic, mechanical mode, becoming something mechanical and proud, one after another, no no no no no…
Pause, let it be blank for a while, take a short break… scattering into some fragmented, amorphous small particles, crackling in the vacant channel.
Symbol Based on Description: CCC, 07.25.2021
| / ɑ:ŋθ / |
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Image Combining Description and Symbol: Su, 07.27.2021
Text: Su, 06.2020
5. Before Being Eliminated, He Observed the Dolls Seriously#
“Why don’t you bloom?” Spring asks a winter tree, “Didn’t you see me coming?”
“I would love to welcome you,” the frozen tree says, “but the chain connecting my biological clock and body has fallen off, I can no longer grow according to my rhythm.”
A tree without leaves has always been withered. A carpenter passes by, sees this bare tree, thinks it must be dead, and cuts it down for firewood.
Children weave stories with toys, and they play with great concentration. Whose toy wins or loses in the story, the rewards or punishments received will also reflect on the children. So they play with great seriousness, not daring to be careless.
He plays half-heartedly, no longer able to connect the toys with himself—this ragged piece of cloth, that stiff-jointed mechanical dog, what does it have to do with me? H exits the game, no longer receiving rewards or punishments, nothing happens to him anymore. The other children bury the immobile toys; when H dies, he is eliminated.
Borrowed toys from others, carrying the breath of others, make squeaking sounds when played with, and are quite different from his own. Some people like to borrow several toys to play in turn. Choosing different toys to participate in different stories is more interesting than sticking to one; when bored, just throw it away. Others only recognize their own toys, feeling uncomfortable with the breath of others; things that have someone else’s breath, someone else’s body odor, someone else’s body temperature, they really don’t want to touch at all. Newly manufactured toys don’t belong to anyone yet, only the smell of cotton, mechanical parts, and lubricating oil.
Before being eliminated, he had once seriously observed the dolls; he didn’t want to use them to play any roles, just wanted to treat them as they are. As a result, his toys no longer differ from tin robots or fluffy cloth bears; they can no longer competently play any roles in the story, be it princess or prince. Thus, he lost interest in the game.
Φ
Doctor Ma told a story: six birds were locked in a cage, and they had to let some out. But if an odd number of birds were released, they would be lonely; letting them all out wouldn’t work either, why it wouldn’t work, we don’t know. In the end, four were released, leaving two still locked inside.
I went to play in a cave with three college roommates. Two of the roommates are already archaeologists; they can determine geological ages based on the stones in the cave. Another roommate learned to make homemade instruments; she tied two strings to two pieces of wood and plucked them. At night, we stayed in the cave overnight; there were four beds side by side, just enough for us to sleep. The cave entrance faced a toilet, and I went there to wash up.
After washing and returning to the cave, I saw the people on the beds had already fallen asleep; the four of them were twisting on the beds exaggeratedly, as if they hadn’t left the bed but had already begun to sleepwalk. I counted again: one, two, three, four, indeed four people; then what about me? I am also one of the four lying on the bed, but I am watching them. Then I realize I am indeed lying on another bed, a bed somewhat distanced from the front four, belonging to another row. Next to me, there is another bed where Y is sleeping. Now there are a total of six people.
At this moment, I remember Doctor Ma’s story and suddenly understand it is a fable. I realize that the current me is one of the two birds left in the cage, not chosen. The one who was one of the four exploring the cave before is not me; it is another person. The current me is temporarily formed with the appearance of the extra two beds; I have just formed a few seconds ago.
Φ
On the way home, I fumble with my keys and feel one is bent; I try to bend it back but end up breaking it. I didn’t expect it to be so fragile; one end of the key even crumbled like sand.
Who am I? The person who will die when committing suicide, not him, not her, just this one. I think about dying every day, a common sense that considers suicide the worst solution is ebbing away. I feel exhausted; I do nothing, and even doing nothing exhausts me. I can’t read; the book I carry in my bag hasn’t been finished for weeks, and I think I should write a paper but haven’t written a single page. I am drifting further away from my former self. Counting, it has been three years since he left his mark in my life. When memories of L City surge, I feel sad; back then, I looked more like a living person from the outside, at least I could still see you, and compared to Beijing, I thought there were more places suitable for dying there—I know this sounds ridiculous, and I wasn’t happy at all in L City.
Why should I die? Because I’ve made a mess of my life, and this mess is very illusory; because my fantasies have shattered, and the feeling of shattered fantasies is an incurable illusion. I’m guessing how he, D.M., views the matter of being alive? How does he view his own life? If his theories with no way out also have no way out for him, if he doesn’t know what to do, why spend half a lifetime talking and writing, making others think he knows something? He must enjoy being placed in a high position by others. He talks about the difference between humor and irony—they seem to have a rich sense of humor; they are humorous when writing and tormenting others. One day he asked me, “Do you sometimes think about mocking yourself?” Probably not yet, is not being able to self-mock a mistake? Trapped in something too rigid. If I can’t self-mock, should I be mocked?
D.M. gives me a feeling: no matter what I think, I imagine some audience, in my imagination, I am thinking towards them. Thoughts are like a giant octopus, tentacles stretching in all directions. I am now thinking towards you. If I think of someone when I think of dying, am I thinking towards that person? Is my death also towards that person? Am I dying for that person to see? No, dying is the least worth seeing because the things that can be seen no longer exist; I have taken myself away, no longer needing to think about annoying things like who to direct towards. Every thought feels so meaningless; die, I want to take myself away. But why do I want to die? Why must I die? I still don’t understand. It says, “I want to die,” but who is this wanting to die? I don’t know. I am the person who will die when committing suicide.
Φ
I go to listen to a lecture; the projection screen shows a map of Australia. It is said that the southeastern part of Australia has always been the most developed, and later cities like Ottawa and Toronto also joined the ranks of the developed; it is also said that the center of L City has no one living there, but many bicycles are parked around the city center, forming a large circle.
The large room at my grandmother’s house is fixed with a camera. It swings its head left and right, throwing rags at the faces of passersby. I think it’s still a young camera in puberty, not accustomed to a fixed life, must be very bored, so it vents by throwing rags at people.
Φ (Sound Mechanism)
Before he died of illness, he had always slept with his father. I lie on their bed; the room looks like it has been abandoned for a long time, with furniture in a brownish-yellow color like it was molded from loose soil in old photos. His father’s side of the bed is empty. I pick up his pillow—a small pillow, covered in dirty signs of use. He left it behind; he didn’t take it with him to the grave. A line of words is faintly written on the back of the pillow, and I can make out a number, “14” or “16.” From this, I infer that the line probably says, “He died at 14 or 16.”
In the family photo stuck to the wall, there are many faces that have begun to fade, among which is a little girl wearing a hearing aid. The hearing aid is actually just a decoration; she is completely deaf, possibly unable to speak. She is the source of dissatisfaction for the other family members with life, thus being ostracized by them. On the day the photo was taken, the whole family had already stood in the yard, calling her over, but she couldn’t hear. So they confirmed with disappointment: she is indeed deaf.
I turn on the TV, and the screen displays the content of a game cartridge inserted into a Famicom, which is also the boy’s relic. It’s an action game where the player plays as a girl in a cave, and the enemy is her father—who seems to have turned into a monster with horns and bulging muscles. This monster can use magnetism to pull the protagonist over and then throw her against the rock wall to cause damage. If thrown repeatedly, she will die. The girl also has magnetism; I need to quickly rub a few keys to make the girl stick firmly to the rock wall. The first time I play this game, I quickly get a game over.
I wake up in a high school classroom. It seems to be a Chinese class because my desk is covered with my Chinese test paper full of red crosses, especially the essay part, which is a complete mess, with a score so low it can be ignored. Noticing that I have woken up, the classmate in front of me turns around to comfort me; he seems to think I fell asleep because I did too poorly on the exam. He says he can teach me writing from scratch. What he means is teaching me how to write because my essay paper is also filled with misspellings, with hardly any real words.
After reviewing the test paper, another exam begins; this time I can’t even tell whether it’s math or English. The first part is multiple choice questions; the last multiple choice question comes with many pictures, four per row, almost occupying an entire page, and the question is: “From the following pictures, and all the accompanying images from the previous questions, which can determine that the throat is a person’s vocal organ?” At first glance, almost all the people in the pictures have their mouths open, some are smiling, some seem to be talking, and some appear to be shouting in anger. But the pictures are silent; how can one determine who is making sounds from their throats and who is just opening their mouths? I try to observe these open-mouthed pictures from the perspective of a mute, trying to judge which mouth is more likely to produce sound through the scenes, but when I look closely, those mouths all close again. The scenes presented in the pictures are all potentially sound-producing or soundless; for example, a person with a wide-open mouth might be shouting, or they might be yawning; there’s also a picture of two people making love, and it’s impossible to tell if they are shouting or gasping.
People often say that language cannot accurately express real feelings because life experiences are far richer than words. But that’s not the case. In fact, real feelings are often insufficient to be expressed by language because words are clearer than the “actual situation” of feelings, thus stronger. A simple “even,” “actually” can produce an emphasis effect that I find unbearable. Which feelings deserve their strong contrast and emphasis? Of course, what I’m saying here is just my own feelings; when I hear others narrate their experiences with rich words, I always truly believe that their feelings themselves are that rich, as if a healthy, plump body perfectly supports the garment of language.
He is an outsider to all things. The only thing still in Heraclitus’s river, too thin to be pushed by the waves.
So light that it cannot land on the scale. He watches the past plummet heavily. But the soul, this indivisible spot must rise…
Φ (Image 2)
The projection screen plays an animated film: a wall stretches and twists. The subtitles explain that this mimics the painful digestion process of a rabbit.
Then it plays the ending of a cyberpunk animation, where the female protagonist L, in fact, is a computer program. She is about to disappear. This is a carnival at sunset; an exaggeratedly dressed parade passes through the street in front of me. You are watching from a distance; I hope you can carefully watch L’s disappearance. A woman in a big skirt walks over, and as she approaches, it turns out she is three people, with two children hiding in her skirt; they split off from the skirt like an umbrella and then shrink back, leaving as one person. The next performer walks to the audience; people find she is actually two identical women, with only slight differences in clothing color and expression, staggered like playing cards, displaying for a moment, then merging and leaving. This carnival is held once every late summer to remind people not to trust appearances.
I stare blankly as the parade participants walk by one after another, and when I come to my senses, it is completely dark. I seem to have forgotten what happened. Fireworks begin to be set off, the last segment of the carnival, accompanied by particularly cheerful music. L is about to disappear; her body has become translucent, revealing the code inside. I look back at the position where you were sitting; you are chatting with colleagues, and I feel very sad that you didn’t watch L disappear.
After the parade leaves, a market appears on the street. A vendor with a cart sells all sorts of strange props, like a bra that can hide two children. It is said that buying his things can restore past memories. I don’t know when “the past” refers to; if it’s when I’ve already forgotten, of course, I can’t remember. My college roommates are also picking things; when I see them, I start to cry, saying I want to stay here forever, but the shopkeeper calmly reminds me that I shouldn’t say that—because saying that will really make me stay here forever.
Sometimes in dreams, I feel a scene or thing is particularly familiar, but after waking up, I can’t recall where I’ve seen it. Perhaps a part of memory only belongs to dreams, and can only be remembered in dreams? The memory of dreams has its own continuity; sometimes in dreams, I recall a dream I had already forgotten while awake, but does this memory in dreams indeed mean there was an old dream, or is this memory also part of the fabrication of dreams? It not only fabricates one-time experiences but also builds a vertical depth of memory for them in an instant, making “new” and “repeated” indistinguishable. Dreams with memory depth are like layers of nested boxes, which can be opened one by one, stepping inside; each opened layer of the world is broader than the previous one, as if every moment can unfold into infinity. Fabricated scenes possess a soul due to the accompanying memory. Whose soul is this? The soul of dreams seems to be a small part of my soul, but this small part can unfold into a greater infinity than me…
Sound Based on Text: CCC, 10.03.2021
Sound Description: Su, 10.10.2021
Grand and empty sounds, standing or floating in rough gravel. A ghost castle. On the ground, there are piles of rough scales, evenly waving snakes passing through, stirring up a layer of black mist. In the shroud of black mist, a delicate tower like a wind chime flashes. The heavy, solemn castle flickers in the howling wind, occasionally small creatures flash by; they are passersby. The castle, lingering in the rough storm, spreads out with the harsh wind, laying a background for what kind of ghost’s arrival?
With the snakes coiling and waving, something sharp begins to breathe in the black wind, rhythm and fluctuation echoing, gradually becoming coherent. It once calmed down; when the wind chime rings, it rises from the coiling of the black snakes, like a star that cannot be grasped, shining repeatedly.
The swirling begins to sway like a flickering flame about to extinguish, disappearing. The wind’s hand brushes across the harp.
For a while, only the scales rustle, but the friction quickly becomes blocked and rumbling; the wind, the consistently even atmosphere begins to unsteadily inhale and exhale, something is being knocked down. Once again, that sharp star is touched; it has become fragmented like a string of jingling keys, an unending bell. Something whirls around it swiftly. In the rumbling, the initial castle scene seems to have been demolished. A wave carries it away, rubbing against it, transforming its image into nothingness, only that unending bell still ringing.
Symbol Based on Description: CCC, 12.07.2021
| /ʃɔ：ŋ/ |
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Image Combining Description and Symbol: Su, 03.27.2022
Text: Su, 06.2020
To Be Continued (Format Retained)#
Sound Based on Text: CCC, 03.16.2021
Sound Description: Su, 03.17.2021
_ _
Symbol Based on Description: CCC, 03.25.2021
| / ʃ / | imge |
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Image Combining Description and Symbol: Su, 03.29.2021