The sixteen from Jiǎhú qìkè fúhào wallowed into the bedraggled barn my attention is. It’s a small barn, often void of substance never emptied on spirit. The sun does shine there.  

Through the cleavages spectating the revisioned bordered off sides of this devisioned thought outbuilding: yellow ray’ed air, specked with other’s memories as floating dust particles. Now I count sixteen rays. I recognize them yet so not understand. Read lite unread light. 

She shines as non eating down on my physical skin here today. There are many new suns in my life. Each are unreadable, pages as bursts, negative space as shadows, cyphers as rays. Non are nonentities. They have mass and then not. They are only absent if imagination falters as the last of the dimming fireflies. 

That vastness of unspoiled scapes, I neither escape from, nor into, are a set of bodies beshining the promise of hidden enlightenment in plain sight. I know you mean something. It is I who cannot read you. You call out, you beckon as if lushly willing to undrape meaning, I know you won’t. The obsession with literacy is a mouth eager to gush control onto these burning words. 

The sixteen from Jiǎhú will ever last. 

—-animasuri’22 

thank you WSA

thank you, “贾湖契刻符号”