My hometown, my hometown; collectors of sundown, here I am, too lazy for small talk. Send me some secrets that you've heard through the years I was gone, and I will listen just like old times. I'm gathering dusts of the past, lecturing old trees and hills as if I … (read more)

My hometown, my hometown; collectors of sundown, here I am, too lazy for small talk. Send me some secrets that you've heard through the years I was gone, and I will listen just like old times. I'm gathering dusts of the past, lecturing old trees and hills as if I can turn back time, when all I am is a child in a grown-up's disguise, secretly arguing with nostalgia and I'm terribly losing.

Ten years ago, twenty years ago, to thirty. Nostalgia multiplies so lovingly, so violently, taking on shapes of worn-out teddy bears so familiar to me that I can never embrace again, finding it strange that the meaning of my life is elevated, when the happiness I want to return to is now out of reach. And so, I ache.

I ache in a thousand shantytowns, too mesmerized by the rapid change—I could not keep up. How the gods of time move so quickly, against me!

Suddenly, my childhood memories are the wine in a glass I'm holding while I wade in the shallow part of the familiar sea. Why, Oh dearest waters, can the good things of the past no longer be?