The writings left behind by those whom
Your fears implore won’t have to save you;
别人的著作救不了你
You are not the others and you see yourself
你不是别人，此刻你正身处
Now at the center of the labyrinth woven
自己的脚步编织起的迷宫的中心之地
By your own steps. The agonies of Jesus or
Socrates will not save you， nor will the
Strength of Golden Siddhartha who，
At the end of the day， accepted death
In the garden. The word written
By your hand or the verb spoken
By your lips， these too are dust. Fate has no pity，
And God’s night is infinite.
Your matter is time， ceaseless
Time. You are each solitary moment.
你不过是每一个孤独的瞬息
听完这首十四行诗，浅间呼吸逐渐平缓，渐渐沉睡。
衰了4天的波奇看样子满血复活了。
《东京僚机王》 196. 一个陌生女人的来信 与 很多陌生女人的来信（第7/9页）
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