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Looking at the hat

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And the wind walked in front like time. Homework was undone for long. And evening bells kept on talking to the last trace of light. It was important since a flower was about to come. This was the message from smell. Like a butterfly it goes and enters spring. Where are those books? After school, college they went to the library and the librarian went for holiday hoping that sea had not retired so far, and in Vietnam there was a small hut open for likeminded strangers. Time always travels away from it and further towards its inside and when I saw Chen, I remembered May, first. Now I remember that the librarian was calculating crosswords and suddenly he found the name Suzanne. And am sure the racks for old newspapers like always listen to raindrops, when those old papers are wet. I was travelling in a bus to university and it was clear by then. Economics is not a positive science, not even aesthetic science. So I saw Chen seated on a rock. Chen must have known that there is a relation be...
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Chanting. But wonderfully the music is revolving, splashing within and outside. A tension that perpetuates like a trekking through forest. From far and suddenly from near a trace of light. The leaves as you may wish, keep dancing like water dances when a young river hugs rocks facing its way. I am not the audience. I am not the performer. I am the eyes of the audience and lips of the performer. You are the secret music that controls my senses. Chanting. You occupy my mind and body like air occupies a flute. And dissolved into your whims I play. You know more. I raise more. You wonder about your smell that ancient graphics absorbs and becomes a code of whisper. I can’t be chained and yet I am. I can’t be frozen so you look outside of the cloud. I can’t be compact so you secretly desire. I am not the audience. I am not the performer. I am the eyes of the audience and lips of the performer. Play relentlessly the Pipa. That calls me. Play indomitably the flute. That enervates ...
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