‘There’s nothing that I can straighten out. They are there in my mind, within my body.’

‘I told the story because I wanted to ask a question. But then I don’t how to ask the question.’

‘Those books on the bed had been removed.  Then I realized that the bed was not so small.’

‘Cut your finger, give it to Peter.’

—-Lee Kit

There might be something close to obsession, lingering in your mind. It could be two hands twisted together, or a close up of a frozen, nearly chopped hands, or a successive process of painting a wall. Within a striking distance there might be a vague black structure. Not truly agony, but an unspeakable gloominess, it probably emerge with the dawn as a radiating twilight.

If there has been several moments, then, what are they?

Those seemingly broken timelines, how could they re-connect with their own timespan in certain dimension and space, while keeping their ambiguity?

Just like, it takes rather long time to get a stain to vanish, and to resemble a certain memory.

Two contradicting narratives could finally blend together forming one single narrative.

A dispersing narration, the rhythm of the waving curtain might be the same as the swinging tree branches outside the window.

As if the coating of the table surface, layer by layer, the natural wood colour however starting to be more prominent.

Consequently, a longing is no longer dominating.

The interest in hands could probably the fascination of the nerve endings of the world.

It’d probably be the portrait of every individual.

“Slice a slice of the world, and extend to an eternality.”

——Hu Fang