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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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