Daily Debris of
"C'est à cause du soleil."
- Albert Camus, "L'Étranger"
This is a series of a stranger's daily mumbling.
The diary is going to archive every emotion, colour rhythm, language, and the clip of life while walking in the city. In this one-month record, not merely it is a self-observation but tries to connect ecological, gender, and cultural paths and senses around. These objects or events seem to be ordinary, but they could have a completely different meaning because of different life experiences. With the practice, hope can take a step forward to the absurd (but real) world.
A moth died in my mug
I woke up in the morning and found a moth dead in my mug. Quietly, it's floating with the tea residue leftover from last night. The tea wasn't hot anymore. If I knew that the moth liked to drink tea, I would brew a pot of Jin Xuan for her. Steaming in the heat and fragrance is always better than dying in the emptiness of English breakfast tea.