This realization strengthened my fi sts and broadened my mind when each time I noticed father’s seat in his guardroom had been changed from the soft to the hard, from the hard to the harder, and from the bad to the worse, from the worse to the worst. Or was it the recycled chairs simply had collapsed one after another as crap that seemed to keep him from sleep?
Chapter 6
Where there was a night too deep to sleep, there was a call. The call was always the same, had the same greedy hotness, distant and wild, and with time became nearer and nearer, eventually turning into a fatal inspiration for me to be a photographer. I once had this kinky madness: If ever I had to starve in isolation, I would choose to drift from one countryside to another for photographing, although the dream was at last repulsed by reality. It took me twenty-eight years to answer that call. Now what was once my imagination had fi nally come into blossom. The call trumpeted wilder as the dream of a change occurred and reoccurred.