13Xxxxxxxxx. This string of numbers is the longitude and latitude of my desires, and it is the only secret pattern that distinguishes me from all other living beings. What was once the key to a person is now just a failed coordinate in a private history.
This is a clinical report on "waiting". Waiting for a kiss that may never come, waiting for a call to be diverted, waiting for a few words about "biscuit-flavored cancer" coming from twelve hundred kilometers away.
Two women. Five hundred and seventy days. A page torn from the Book of Songs of the Republic of China. A lotus flower that was picked up in Yin Ruins and finally dried up. She used rock core cataloging to archive her feelings, and I used intellectual archeology to unearth the power and silence beneath her words. We have shared the same period of time, but we have never shared the same ruler of meaning.
This is not a story, this is a testimony. It was a review of today written with the pen she gave me after waking up from countless dreams. It is the only material slice left by me as a sample of an unnamed and uncategorized emotional form.
The record itself is proof of existence.
——The palms of my hands were wet with sweat, so I let go. There is no need to even look for a reason.
Purpose: Same-sex pure love