Each detail is a part of someone else's life.
How many of them are conscious, overlapping, forgotten?
Windows cracked open,
skid marks at an intersection,
fingerprints on the top of the subway door.
The oblivion of a leaf growing in a Taipei forest.
Fluorescent subway bulbs taken for granted by night travelers.
Narrow roads, seen as greasy smears of traffic,
instead of as lines of pavement doodled on the world.
It doesn't stop or begin anywhere,
but words that only exist in our heads
define the borders of our existence.
If I am Here and you are There,
tell me where everyone's breaths stop mixing.