Some people are taking a bus to Fragrant Mountain which climbsa long road, the way a sailor boards a ship whose course has been set.A jolting busful of people enjoying the squeeze as they imagine some feelingand endure a soft suffering, like assenting animals drawing a plough.It is the kind of suffering that is worth getting drunk in, a floatingsuffering, a suffering for which there is no need to cry out. It is a childin a cradle, the rumbling land of the nation, it is an earthquake.It is a moment of wind without scent, no different to anythingthat happened before, passing between bowls filled with rice, it isa new kind of rice, the dead bodies dredged up all at once from the paddies.from the North to the South. It is the warm, edgeless object itself, it isthe non-existent rift extending between unruly Brownian particles.But this division should exist, the distinction that fantasy needsto make the sentimental complain and kick at the ground.But no gulf can help us conceal our bodies, which we hidein the crowd, for we and they are the same. It could even be said,this is the event in the mirror that shatters itself.