While writing this story, I was often reminded of the fine line between art and life. What Li Jiazhen and Zhang Xinrui do through dance and painting is essentially a kind of translation work: translating unspeakable feelings into body movements, translating fleeting moments into lines on paper. The novel itself is also a kind of translation - translating those silent gazes in the subway car, those brief stops on the overpass, and those joint creations in the rehearsal hall into the structure and rhythm of the text.
At this moment, when I finish this story, Beijing is immersed in the winter of 2025. The subway is still running underfoot, Lucheng Station has been restored to its original state, and people are still in a hurry. But something is different - every time I walk into the car, I will subconsciously look for that corner; every time I see someone holding a sketchbook, I will think of that silhouette with his head bowed and drawing.
Dear reader, when you open this book, what you are about to enter is not just a story about subways, dance and painting. This is a meditation on the rhythm of modern life, an exploration of observational aesthetics, and a journey of finding your own uneven moments in the uniform flow of the city.
I hope you can find your own perspective of observation in these words, discover those tiny tremors that are ignored in daily life, and at a certain moment - maybe when the gust of wind comes before the subway enters the station - allow yourself to deviate slightly from the preset track.
Concept: When you open this book, what you are about to enter is not just a story about subways, dance and painting. This is a meditation on the rhythm of modern life, an exploration of observational aesthetics, and a journey of finding your own uneven moments in the uniform flow of the city.