It’s showtime, but I’m barely ready.
When a river flows through a ledge, it’s called a waterfall. They motion me to keep moving.
The people in front are clueless about where they’re going, and there are people waiting behind.
By the way, there’re no signal lights at the waterfalls.
Fanworts slant in, dividing the room into a composition of upper left and lower right.
I can’t explain why there are so many boutique hotels nearby.
Shortly after the crowd starts moving, I hear the sound of a waterfall, which I thought was the roar
of a vacuum cleaner or a lion.
Velvety leaves. The curve of his shoulder or some detail makes him less of a stranger to me.
If one day, all geysers choose to shoot jets of fire.
The crowd meanders in the hotel hallway, and no one seems to know where they are. There’s no
cell phone signal.
His legs, sharp as a blade.
His handwriting can be seen from the back of his plastic folder; he puts it into a black backpack.
The man who looks sideways at me is the one I’ve had lingering eye contact with in the toilet.
Advertisements are very useful. Remember some, and mention them when you don’t know how to
carry on a conversation.
It’s not recommended to reuse paper cups, but they’re more likable when they’re feeble. I repeat.
I repeat.
Put a ceramic urinal in an art museum and call it Geyser. He agrees; he’s also a found object.
That man shakes my collar, as if emptying every powder in a Chinese medicine bag.
There aren’t enough advertisements or paper cups. The words on them become illegible.
Riders on the theme park’s water ride are divided into two groups: those who hold on tightly
to the railings and those who hold their arms in the air.
Whatever happens, photos will be taken. It’s important to manage your facial expression.
Every evidence he leaves behind must be covered with toilet paper.
I’m not going to tell you what the waterfalls actually look like.
A few hours ago, we sat across from each other. Together, we’re reflected in the floor-to-ceiling
windows and became part of a night view. I should have known then.
I feel suspended in emptiness, like emergency exit lighting in hotel hallways.
A three-tier cake. He’d hollow out the middle and seal the cake again. Didn’t I say I was barely ready?
Where the ointment was applied, the shine was soft and thick.
The waterfalls look like a painting I saw.
In the painting, the Pope is screaming vertical lines in his throne, as if he were on the water ride.
The waterfalls are like.
The moment before the water on the table turns into a stain.
Copyright © Chen Poyu. By arrangement with the author. Translation copyright © 2025 by Nicholas Wong. All rights reserved.
