I'm not drawn to things that are too solemn, nor to things that float too lightly. I want the reachable world to be like a trampoline—knowing exactly when to spring up and touch the ceiling, and when to arc back toward the heart of the earth. What matters most is never the height or the depth of the jump, but the resilience that flickers in between.

And when I cannot reach something, I hope it becomes a story with its own soft catch. I will always guard a last, last hope—that this thing, and all things, may glow with their own light, carrying their own final dignity and beauty.

When recording Yuru's poems—my grandmother's—I tried to step through the warmth of language while not turning away from the taut, uneasy moments between us. The slow work of tracing the tangles in her words felt like the way she once braided my childhood hair: pulling too hard at the back of my scalp until I yelped, "Ouch!" Sometimes I sulked, refusing the shape she tried to make of me.

To revisit those gestures through language is to witness an invisible labor, and to find new patience for all our misaligned conversations. I write down the words spoken in small collisions—the ones we repeated endlessly, chewed up and spit out, the ones that slipped behind our necks like a passing wind. What else lives behind such words?

Rainy Day, We Went to the Memorial Hall

“So I want to keep hesitating—to hold a soft critique of myself, to let my life stay alive inside the space of expectation. I wish to give up the habit of judging every little flower and sprout, to leap before I fully trace the contours of a thing, trusting it enough to meet me. The world is an island where ferries only briefly touch the shore; I keep myself ready to be given over, to lean toward a transparent vessel.— “Becoming a Vessel” ”

Some English Translation:

( Translated by Yunqin Wang