Wasteland, you were meant to be colorful.

I walk slowly, but I am still moving forward. To understand myself, to become myself, to surpass myself.

义县的风总带着黍稷的清苦气，不像北京的风

祈祷、写作、爱，都是同一种动作的不同变体。在宇宙中，留下自己的声音。

或许，“彼岸”并不是宗教意义上的终极归属，而是每一个“此刻”中——在他者靠近时，我们是否真正听见了那无声的呼唤。

我的呼喊似乎终于有了回答，那时是我在幼年时期的一个梦中的呼喊，我却花了整个青春来完整地回答这个呼喊。

我们听不见福音，只是因为真空无法传声。

Whether it’s Offred’s monologue in the silence of a totalitarian regime or our voices amid digital noise, what matters has never been who is listening, but that we choose to speak anyway.

The departed have waited long enough — but often, time itself circles back, picking up the calls that once went unanswered.