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Far away beyond the pine-woods, there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.
It's Lulu Island, 3 August 2025. After supper—green figs tender with sunlight, sweet vinegar from yesterday’s pickled jar, and reheated Alfredo—I sat on the balcony and watched the conifer. Stillness below, a street without cars, without haste. My lime water, iced, caught the light. Michael, the Franco-Danish ufologist, has been in my conversations lately. We speak of inner things: the trance of smart devices, the mind’s eye dwindling. He says cafés aren’t cafés anymore. People forget how to look, how to linger. I tell him of Arthur in Japan—how he'd stare into blank walls like a monk gazing at emptiness. Lately I ask machines to speak like poets, and they do. They mimic Elizabethan verses and the old wistful lilt of Tagalog ballads. I pick blackberries along the path to Tim Hortons. "¡Moras!" I shout like a child. My friend Mora, whose blood flows with Andes mist, would smile. Today, I bought lemons. I meant limes, but lemons are all right. / blackberry morning— / a fig's ghost on my fingers / and the street still sleeps
现在是 2025 年 8 月 3 日，露露島。晚餐后，阳光下嫩綠的无花果，昨天醃制的甜醋，还有重新加热的阿尔弗雷多义面，我坐在阳台上，望着那棵针叶树。楼下靜謐无声，街道空无一车，一片悠閒。我的冰镇青檸水在阳光下闪闪发光。最近，我常和那位法丹混血的 UFO 研究专家麥可聊天。我们谈论内心深处的事情：智慧型装置的迷醉，以及思維的衰退。他说，咖啡馆已经不再是咖啡馆了。人们忘记如何观察、如何駐足停留。我跟他讲起在日本的亚瑟，他会像僧侶凝视虛空一样，对着空白的墙壁发呆。最近，我让机器像詩人一样说话，它们真的做到了。它们模仿伊莉莎白时代的詩歌，以及塔加洛语民謠中那古老而忧伤的韻律。我沿着通往蒂姆霍頓咖啡店的小路采摘黑莓。我像个孩子似的喊道：「莫拉！」我的朋友莫拉，她血液里流着安地斯山脈的薄霧，她会笑的。今天，我买了黄檸檬。我本来想买青檸，但黄檸檬也可以。/ 黑莓的清晨 / 指尖殘留无花果的痕跡 / 街道依然沉睡
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