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I Turned into a Speck of Dust
Short Fiction我变成了一粒尘埃
Sansheng Tea. G
A speck of dust opens its eyes and sees the world. An accidental change turned urban white-collar workers into floating dust. From then on, the neon lights of skyscrapers became flowing lava, the falling of willow leaves became a grand death ceremony, and the will of civilization was buried in the mud of the sewer. He skimmed over the coffee fingerprints of those who died suddenly overtime, fell into an eternity mocked by dinosaur fossils, and carbonized in volcanic ash along with Pompeii's bakery signs. Here, time is a moth-eaten web: --The copper bell on the eaves of the Forbidden City remembers the war, but forgets the sweetness on the candied haws on bamboo sticks; --The undead with a lot of likes huddled in the neon tube, and the data flood washed out the lullaby hummed by the AI; --In the green smoke of the burning wasteland, one hundred thousand willow leaves are entrusting their memories to the bud tips of spring. When the ant colony used genes to compose a doomsday elegy, and when the Dust Council offered the temptation to regain flesh and blood, he chose to wander forever and become a witness to all demise: The ancient viruses in the cracks of the glacier and the helmets of the future are reflecting each other, the paint of Dunhuang Flying Sky is cursing each other with the graffiti of tourists, and on the pages of the library, words and blanks compete for the territory of memory. This is a "Divine Comedy" on a microscopic scale, an "Odyssey" on a speck of dust. When the last human being brushes away the dust on the page, all civilization, obsession and forgetfulness will whisper in the light belt: "Keep witnessing."
A speck of dust opens its eyes and sees the world. An accidental change turned urban white-collar workers into floating dust. From then on, the neon lights of skyscrapers became flowing lava, the falling of willow leaves became a grand death ceremony, and the will of civilization was buried in the mud of the sewer. He skimmed over the coffee fingerprints of those who died suddenly overtime, fell into an eternity mocked by dinosaur fossils, and carbonized in volcanic ash along with Pompeii's bakery signs. Here, time is a moth-eaten web: --The copper bell on the eaves of the Forbidden City remembers the war, but forgets the sweetness on the candied haws on bamboo sticks; --The undead with a lot of likes huddled in the neon tube, and the data flood washed out the lullaby hummed by the AI; --In the green smoke of the burning wasteland, one hundred thousand willow leaves are entrusting their memories to the bud tips of spring. When the ant colony used genes to compose a doomsday elegy, and when the Dust Council offered the temptation to regain flesh and blood, he chose to wander forever and become a witness to all demise: The ancient viruses in the cracks of the glacier and the helmets of the future are reflecting each other, the paint of Dunhuang Flying Sky is cursing each other with the graffiti of tourists, and on the pages of the library, words and blanks compete for the territory of memory. This is a "Divine Comedy" on a microscopic scale, an "Odyssey" on a speck of dust. When the last human being brushes away the dust on the page, all civilization, obsession and forgetfulness will whisper in the light belt: "Keep witnessing."