YuHeng's blog

The sea is warm and dark and pregnant of words and ecstasy and nothing. Smoke curls on the wet street and sleeps like a slug. On the bottom of your feet, you awake. The sleep explodes.

“It is not odd, therefore, for him, a sick person, to have a keener sense of health; for a person confined to the four walls of a room to attain the most distant horizons, and for artificiality to lead him to splendid authenticity.” (Diary Gombrowicz 347)