Halfway through sleep, Elliott woke up to mumbled sighs, but he was way too tired to hear what the other man was saying. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he belatedly registered that Cassian must be so tired and sad. His groggy brain could not process longer words.
She knows that the elevator is broken. She knows she wants no accident to happen. She knows that she should take the stairs since five floors are not too much to walk, considering her safety.
He feels like he’s drowning, for lack of a less cliché metaphor, as he wakes from a fitful dream that he no longer remembers. It’s a quiet and difficult sensation. His bed feels like it’s behind him instead of below him. It does not do a good job at supporting him.
Amidst the bustle and rustle of the cars that flourish outside, he steps into the narrow staircase. The handrails are rusted where the thick green paint has peeled off, and the grey paint on the stairs is dirtied with black tar footprints. The walls are close beside him.
She feels indignantly enslaved to the grey subtitles, but other than that, she has no response. She tells God one night that she made a mistake. She wants the ability of Sherlock Holmes to infer the future through literary clichés and common plot courses by her own volition, not to sit and read the grey lines a foot ahead of her. God doesn’t answer. Perhaps she’s telling her that she doesn’t have a choice. A born gift is a gift.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its glow painting the walls shifting amber. Fern sat cross-legged before it, a bottle of something cheap and easy resting between his knees. Sage occupied the lone chair, his silhouette carved in flickering relief against the room’s dimness. Outside, the wind murmured through the cracks in the window frame, but inside, there was only the fire’s whisper and the weight of unspoken thoughts. Both poets were silent for a long while, listening to the crackling.
Specialist's Account:
The elusive Quisquil (Spectroputris vorax) cannot be perceived with mere eyes; it can only be observed through lenses made of strange glasses such as shattered bottle-bottoms and cracked jar-lids. Layer enough of these together, and through the cracks, colored glazes and sediment, you might just catch a glimpse of something that should not be there, a heaving mass of things forgotten and forsaken, crawling with a lumbering gait through alleyways and corridors alike, never perceived by passersby.
One: Marbles
I hold your hand and say –
I’ve held it since nineteen seventy-nine.
You laugh and tell me I’m copying off
The lyrics of Marbles.
一行人包了辆当地的小面包车，颠簸了近两个小时，才抵达徒步的起点——一个地图上都没有明确标注的山坳。下车后，眼前豁然开朗。远处，玉龙雪山的群峰在湛蓝的天幕下闪耀着圣洁的银光，近处是连绵起伏的草甸，点缀着不知名的野花，空气清新得带着甜味，深吸一口，沁人心脾。
I. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Burying Your Ancestor
(Jiarong Tibetan Edition)
So, your ancestor has begun their next journey.
Take a breath.
Here’s how to navigate it with grace.