In the school, some girls gather on the rooftop and talk with other girls. Some of some girls like to talk with some of the other girls. Others of some girls don’t like to talk with some of the other girls. So some girls talk with other girls willingly and other girls talk with some girls unwillingly. While talking with other girls, some girls have other faces on their faces. Some girls have other faces behind their faces. Some girls grow thorns on their faces. Some girls shed tears behind their faces. Some girls don’t know that they have other faces on or behind their faces. Other girls are just waiting for another day to come. Someday, some girls will be some girls’ mothers. Some of other girls won’t be any girls’ mothers. Some girls will leave the town. Some girls will forget some of other girls entirely. Some of the other girls will still be on the rooftop.
The desert you suppose you are walking in is not a desert. It is a desert-sized map of the desert left in a one-eyed historian’s other eye. Anywhere in it, you can never find the empire you want to destroy, because it is the empire of blind birds. The name of the hidden palace is nothing but a tiny shadow of a feather stained on your aging brain. Besides, the brain you suppose you have in your head is not a brain. It is nothing but a brittle beehive, which has been constructed by a proud queen bee since the day she flew into your ear and began to raise her offsprings in your empty head. That’s why you have been walking in the desert for four thousand years. Every word you make is just a buzz. Every thought you have is just a crazy group dance. Besides, the desert you suppose you are walking in is not a desert. You can never find the ignorant night as a relief.