Heading to Liberty Island, Walking Alone in the Wind

At dusk, my shadow is stretched long by the setting sun, cast on the warm asphalt road, like a deep door leading to the past. Suddenly I remembered that the ancients did not have electric lights, and their nights were continued by moonlight and candlelight. So the weight of the entire day was pressed into this small piece of fragile warm light at dusk. The farmer returned from hoeing, and his shadow disappeared into the firewood gate; the woman leaned against the door and looked at it, and the smoke from the kitchen melted into the dusk. The story of a day must be completed in this hazy moment. What a solemn farewell that should be - to the light, to the work, to the unfinished words. Our dusk is thin. It is easily pierced by the light of street lights, neon signs and screens, and is diluted into a hurried node on the way to get off work. We have lost the experience of being surrounded by the gentle twilight, and the moment when we suddenly hear our own heartbeat in the alternation of light and darkness. So I turned off all the lights. Watch how the last daylight retreats from the window lattice inch by inch, like the tide receding to reveal the beach of memory. The shadow first faded and then merged with the darkness of the entire room. Before complete darkness falls, there is a brief, indefinable moment when everything loses its clear outline, but is not completely swallowed up by the night. The "twilight" that the ancients called was originally such a kind of suspended and hesitant beauty. In this hesitation, I touched those fading dusk. They don't go far, they just settle at the end of each day, like dried petals between the pages of a book. When we finally calm down and turn off the overly bright artificial daylight, the ancient time will slowly return from the depths of the shadow.