That night Philip Glass' piano kept playing as the sympathy, chatting with the violin; the high low tones between them was violently. To compare with our silence, the whisper was like a knife full of bloods when everything stopped at the quitest blink.
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The postcards on the wall are like the faces staring me without any words, seems no emotion but still got something to tell. Sometimes those words, patterns, stripes and colours are lively twist, that instantly inputs all the emotions on myself.
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Afterward, the girl wasn't there when I was aware of that moment. She disappeared like she never occured in my life. Silently. The cable TV was swiftly flipping the news that'd already showed the fourth times at the midnight, it talked about the election: "the candicate decide to run for the term of the president, or not? or so? or not? or so?...", so seriously; and I cannot be able to find the remote control anywhere else.
想到不知哪個女子說過：“你這樣男人每個女人都想跟你談 場 戀愛；不過都維持不了多久。”而那時笑容在哭泣。淚看不見的 流了下來，沿著嘴角，滴在心裡。
那晚Philip Glass的鋼琴一直在背後和著。與提琴的弦交談著。高 低 音激烈討論著。相對於我們的安靜，悄聲像把刀，在一切停止時 沾滿了血液。
。。。
牆上貼著的Postcard有如一張張朝著你望卻不發一語 的臉孔，沒有情緒又在吐露。有時上面滿佈的文字圖案線條色塊 像活了起來扭曲，一瞬間卻想要全部對你加諸。
。。。
在我回過神時那女子已經不在這裡。好像從沒在我生命中出 現 過一般的消失。無聲無息地。夜晚Cable電視節目裡則 快速閃著今天已出現過第四次的跑馬新聞；選不選不選不選如玫 瑰花瓣摘落的猜測慎重。而我遍尋不到遙控器。
*Translation from previous article.
