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There are two ways of walking into an old house. One, you get in and look for emotions, search through the past. Flip through stories. Rummaging through anecdotes. Leave no stone unturned. Formulating an arch of progression that converges onto now. And then you encounter Zeno of Elea, with each subdivision of states becoming increasingly small and stories becoming increasingly complex. It is difficult to circumvent the weight of the past. The second way is when one leaves those stories, memories, anecdotes be. Touch no things. These anecdotes and emotions still exist but in a somewhat hallucinatory state. Stories from different times and spaces form a continuum; sometimes, these anecdotes appear haphazardly and then linger on for seconds, minutes, or days. (It’s ok to dwell on) The house is merely a space that contains and confines, has no other functions other than warding off rain and the wind.I imagine the past as monoliths of sound, but they are not immobile nor fixated in time and has no arch of progression, mainly serves as musique d’ameublement or, by happenstance, forms something monumental counterpointing the vista out of the glass facade overlooking Central’s main streets and fleeting images from a foreign place.





我想像𥚃的過往是聲音的巖陣,只是它從不固定,也不滯止於時,亦不囿拱  (ARCH OF PROGRESSION) 的圈框。反而有著幾分傢俱音樂的面向,因藉偶然,組成未可知的聲音遲相 - 當眺望中環街景的玻璃窗前,橫空錯置了異域的影像。

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