I am looking, at a pond so deep that I can’t see through it, at a scene of old women slowly emerging from the wrinkles of an old city …. I saw dark faces, terribly old, as if every living thing was merely the darkness of a neutral color, the women, the owner of the brilliant blaze, of dead trees, of mushrooms sprouting in the butt of trees, of a waterdrop barely hanging from the tip of a leaf …

How do the women gather together? Why do their mouths open ceaselessly when they are all together? Why do they laugh aloud as if scraped by darkness? Is it because of the intimate atmosphere made by worn-out intonations embracing each other? Worn out benches, the trophies of a pigeon swaggering and rolling its eyes, a deep scabbard, missing whispers, musical instruments with holes missing leaving the traces of every night …

But why are they so fascinating to me, as if I ran into an evening cat, whose each hair shines so brilliantly, sucking in darkness.

How long have I been living in this city, watching the flowers sticking out mouths like incense burners, watching their twisting of vulgar waists and the arrogant eyes, watching the bubbling desire imposing crude sexual positions, watching the clouds floating like sentences written by a left hand, and watching a fire disappearing without a word.