I write about them, and I also write about myself: how to use the side by side of a copy to exchange for the blunt knife of tomorrow's layoff notice; how to use a virtual apricot blossom to cover the white at the end of the hospital corridor. If you suddenly hold your breath while reading a certain page, it is the paper umbrella handed to you on the back of the text. Please take it and don't ask why the umbrella ribs are damp. The story will be disconnected at any time, just like the archive of life will be destroyed at any time; but disconnection does not mean disappearing, it just turns the light into a code, and continues to watch for us before the next server restarts. May these pieces of silver ring softly in your pocket, reminding you: above the torrent, we were once each other's driftwood.
