On a summer afternoon, a strange man in black held flowers. The flowers were delicate and tender, as if condensing the essence of a woman's life. We couldn't help but keep up with his pace, weaving through the shadows of the trees and the mottled enclosures, walking in a hurry, but we couldn't catch up. When the man in black looked back, we saw a mirror-like face, tough, sharp, flickering, mysterious, and restless. The Mirror Man is the phantom of the beloved man in our youthful fantasies, whom we long for, yet are so afraid to approach. The person we are looking for is actually a reflection of our own heart, which is beyond our reach.
On the way home, the key to the door was accidentally dropped. With the key in his mouth, it turned into a sharp knife in an instant. Desires came surging, unexpectedly, pierced through the weakest and hidden corners, leaving awake pain. Suddenly, a woman wearing a blindfold walked up to him and woke up to find that this person was her husband.
Like a mirror-faced man in black, the husband put the flowers in his hands at the foot of the bed. He is the man who appeared in the dream countless times, warm and obscure. The gong was beating slowly, and one afternoon we fancied that a knife would no longer be inserted between the loaves, but our own throats. The cycle of sex and life, over and over again, round and round. Where do I come from, who do I meet, what kind of life do I want to live, and where do I go. Questions that cannot be answered, like all the locks of the heart that cannot be opened, scattered life objects, microphones that are not on the landline, music boxes with records and box-guessing gambling, leave deep confusion and despair.
Many years have passed, and one day I suddenly asked myself, did you really love him?
--no. I just thought I found myself from his mirror-like face that summer.
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