Memory gives mortality a memoir.

To each their own shattering, to each their own other.

Please put me into a trance, with the warmth of your blood flow.

Like a never, ever yesterday that rewinds itself.

我可以说我可以说，我们都是被破坏的人。露丝这么感觉。一个小赛博坦人和她哥哥在一个漫长的假期出门星际旅行的故事。露丝是个天马行空的废人，而埃尔文是个高精尖的人渣。埃尔文是1049工作室的工程师，可是后来单飞了，一个无恶不作的工作狂在不工作的时候干什么呢？准备新的工作。另外埃尔文还偶尔做他妹妹，因为他是个人渣。他们去了工程师的母星、著名的俱乐部人肉丛林、一个只有一名音乐制作人的星球，以及地球。在地球上露丝交了一位新的朋友，工程师则和他的朋友再续前缘。关于创造者和他的造物互相虐的故事，不过天真且童趣。我感觉我正在消失在你的世界里；他泄气了，像是在天堂体内。

骨架附近传来似是而非的声音，

我不知顾我在

我如此复而还

执意地如此行事

昨天写在漫无目的的空气中，工笔刻印的无中生有和刻意写意的虚无。

沧澜色的迷梦，发尖染上，永恒的火。

模范质地的图式和图案，幻灭是蔚蓝色。

我之得以，是我之失。

Chaos is a staircase. Composed hesitantly with cement and fragments of limestones. Thinly veiled forgotten dreams, realistic illusions and pretty lores. Trapped in the tendrils of lace vines and crystallized patterns of florals. Same old dials, how so once more.

Love, how lovely, what a waste of time and resources. How nice of you to fall into the muddle holding a plastic imitation of laurel branch, to fell in love with love itself, and never really get up from the little pond of slimy mud.

Home of parlour jazz, Al Capone and bastardized Bauhaus,Chicago is like a real existing dystopian metropolis, written in haste from a scruple between the editor and a frustrated second-grade pulp teen novel author.

International bulletproof spaceshipwreck. It’s fine; it’s fun.

There is a mummified cat in the museum.

THERE IS A MUMMIFIED CAT TROTTING IN THE MUSEUM.

Well whatever, forget about it.

Refined, attentive, and always ice-coldly cool, that’s what Atzamof was. This smug little bugger has been striding around the world since the last millennium.

He used to be something, but never in love.

A short story featuring a feline smug thug and a divorced historian striding around Cairo like it’s nobody’s business. Picture purrfect for laughter and fluff.

银河的边缘，只是更深重的银河。

失乐园，妄乐园，失望乐园。构想而成的动物和一团迷乱的光雾。我之得矣，亦是我之失，我之惘然。

A broken prism. Gilded with silver, glass and pyrite. The day is long yet time fell short. All are blurred fragments, incomplete montage collected in a broken lantern.

All tomorrow’s songs blend together, into a white wolf in a plain of snow.

Where had the piano gone?

In the dead hours, Absinthe, some flower and dried mushrooms…

The veiled tincture of Murano glass.

The melody of Time is...a repetition. Re:member. 

当我弓起身来时，天色已经渐渐暗下了。全身弥漫着雾气般的麻木，头顶昏昏沉沉，我试着活动僵硬的手指，却感觉不到任何温度。