I could sense the foreign spring behind me.
This bloom could one day be the opening lines of a story, perhaps my own life story.
It could say that I stood there, with my back facing the garden and the blossoming magnolia tree.
Write my parents: tell them that I drowned in the river and my traces are lost. This will set them free, as well as I.
I will go on to live the life of a bourgeois.
The coffee shop across the river had lit two rows of lanterns: red and green. Probably tasteless from up close.
But from afar, they
shimmered with mystique
and color, and their reflections in the fierce, black river were magnificent.