2025.05.10
Jane had never spoken on the sidewalk, but the world heard her loud voice in silence between words. In a town suffering from symbols and gestures, they could not care for anyone – except paper. Not newspapers or posts, but Bubbles of speechScattered ideas, hearing arguments, textbooks, forgetful margins of textbooks. These bubbles used to follow it, sometimes behind the helmet behind it, like ghosts, sometimes plastering like glasses, as no one else could see like graft.
One afternoon, he stared at the blurred bubble: “You don’t… Little Friday” He wandered a face that looked like her, had entered the plastic sheen of old memories. It was not his, but acquaintance was disturbing. The image was thrown unconscious as if something was remembered that she could not.
These words were not addressed – but they upset it. He started collecting half of these prepared messages, compiled them in a journal that seems to be written by himself. Each piece was indicated once: a forgotten siblings, a fantasy friend left behind, a shadow was poured with grief.
And then, the messages began to answer.
“Jane, this is me.”
“I was never younger.”
“You’ve forgotten the contract.”
Jane realized that she was not an inactive observer. She was the culmination by which the homeless voices whispered the house. The towns, books, even his own memories had made some modifications, something that once stood in every frame.
So she became a source of misrepresentation – not only by listening to the ghosts of the wasted dialogue but also responding to them. The bubble of a speech at a time, Jane was stitched until the final panel said more You don’t …But instead, We remember
Would you like the next Chinese translation?