Old Stories in West Pavilion

Someone asked me why I always write about these "insignificant" things? Perhaps it's because, in an era where efficiency is paramount, we are too accustomed to measuring everything in terms of "usefulness": commuting requires the shortest route, dining requires the quickest solution, and even thoughts must be compressed into a few words in instant messaging. And those "surplus" time - the half hour of arriving early, the ten minutes of getting lost, and the idle afternoon have become the most luxurious blank space. These manuscripts are the flowers I planted in the blank space. What they record is not a grand narrative, but a private imprint of the dialogue between an individual and the city, between time and himself. Now collecting these words into a volume is like sorting out a box of dusty old letters. Some sentences still have the flavor of those years.