Mining would be some bodies walking in and a different collection of bodies walking out.

When my grandfather climbed out of his personal mine, his face liquefied with the coal ashes as sweat vaporized in the air from the releasing of pressure. I failed to locate his eyes as we were about to permeate together into the dirt and rocks that covered his body.

One’s memory decays as one’s body decays and one recollection fades as another recollection surfaces. The decay of the materials is the materials’ agency to shapeshift. To liquefy and to vaporize is to escape the ever solidifying border of archive, identity, and the dead.


“I’m tracing your edge behind your back. You are writing under the Incandescent lamp which I inherit from you. Gliding a slow curve onto your pen, again I failed to see your face clearly, such shimmering violence hovering on you and me. The shadow projected by your words, chewing away our lives.


I need to talk to you about the explosion you hoped to contain but eventually leaked to me. I want to ask you why your daughter hasn't told me your name. Your writing is dead to me as I denounce it constantly by failing to recognize your signature.


How can I write about you while being a timeless deathless lifeless spirit in the silent corner of darkness. My words pushed you further away into the vast land where we got lost and full of fear among these tombstones. I‘m sensing my way through to resurrect us for a slippery moment.


I’m going to hold on to your body and let’s burn together with the heat of the incandescent light. Fuel the flames of death through the voids of your words, the memories survived your own apocalypse, and my words searching for the seeds of life. ”



My mother didn’t allow herself to cry when her father passed away from lung cancer. She fell into a deep dream with her dying father and me growing a prophetic sorrow inside her. The yet alive found themselves conversing in the language they couldn’t use when awake. What they shared with each other will never be recollected in any written or spoken language. When he was ready to leave, he got up from his hospital bed, transformed into a beam of light into her womb. I was born holding a multiplicity in me.

When my mother first told me this dream, I couldn’t bring myself to shower for a while. Several weeks after living in the United States, I decided to take my magnifier and took a careful look into these PVC drains outside of my house trying to find out if I dropped our language in the sewer when showering. I seriously suspected that each time we let water rush down our skin, it fades the tears and sweat we accumulated on the other side of the earth.