Let’s sit beneath this sky
strung with nine hundred thousand lights
and drink bowls of this old chyāng

There are at least two ways to go about telling a story. More straightforward, though not necessarily easier, is to document societies and situations that amuse, frustrate, illuminate.

You were everything I imagined – chaotic, dirty, and severely mismanaged. But then, I wasn’t looking for anything serious either.

I can’t exactly remember what happened in the days before the blockade was imposed. But I do remember that just as the gates in the mysterious south went down and prices went up a beautiful girl with dark curly hair moved in to the next building.

These are both films about death in the cold, in the thin air, for little reason except pride or wealth or foolishness.

Somehow we managed to escape them and we headed for the highest mountains we could see. No more police behind us, but it was clear why. There was no food, we were entering uninhabitable mountain reaches. We had to sleep in the snow.

I understand why some of my fellow citizens want to celebrate this document. But when I weigh that against why some other fellow citizens of mine find no reason for cheer, I find betrayal in the celebrations.

Within these tumultuous flames, I see many travelers, separated by immense distances and unimaginable timescales.

You – my bastard child, you have learnt to speak, after years