Idle Talk from a Hotel While It Rains Outside

2007/12/22 0:17:39

Just got back to the hotel. A winter night in the south, cold rain falling — so different from Beijing. Outside is this city's largest square; at midnight, the lights still blaze and traffic still flows. Cities are always tiresome, especially on a distant night like this. The world is so remote, and the city bustles about redundantly.

Year's end — funds bustle about for year-end market-value rankings; everyone bustles about for their own dreams; this ID, out of obligation, was thrown into this southern winter night's cold rain, and bustled about for an evening too. Nothing to complain about — having chosen thus, thus it is. Nothing not to complain about — having chosen to complain a bit, the choice, thus it is.

Each person, carrying their own life and death, joys and sorrows, rushes about to form such a chaotic world. The world's chaos becomes each person's prison, adorned with fancy words — popping ecstasy with history, sheathing culture in condoms.

Over a thousand years from now, there will be a bunch of human elites — their history popped on ecstasy, their culture sheathed in condoms — gathered around a winter hearth, chatting about the golden age of a thousand-plus years ago.

Humanity — quite something.