Memories are sounds trapped in the roundness of a stone. I catch myself in a memory.


The stubborn memories which come so sneakily as if they are events happening in present. I am a sake filled by them walking while I am constantly happening in past through present.

They are just sounds between happening and not happening. The sounds that insist inoccurring inside me: “I “as a place for occurrence.

However, I don’t remember when I’m drained and poured by the shaking scene. I know it is neither present nor past.

Maybe when I was drinking black tea staring at the neighbour’s pine tree, I had been possessed by a sound that doesn’t say anything.


They are fragmented and displaced memories wandering in eyes. This is not an act of remembrance but being there in an event itself, a submerged event under the layers of years.