[One]
法师说，棺木应该停放五天，才能确定安全下葬。
[Two]
“死亡”以后的挣扎，多半是非常痛苦的。那是求生的欲望在黑暗中翻腾，你却不能放声呐喊；或许你能够，但因为已经被错置在万劫不复中二永远不会有人听见你的悲号。那叫做死不瞑目。
你不能离开这里，然而你的意识在告诉你，去吧，去吧。死亡的网已经开始缠绕你的肉体，而你相信你还存活。因为气温突然变得森冷，你因为不住的颤抖而被迫胚胎般的蜷缩起身子，与此同时你发现如果你摒住呼吸，你能够听见指甲生长的声音。咯。叽。一种耳鬓厮磨的极细微的声音，慢慢地削割着，越削越薄、越割越薄……
我想你已经不再有能力啜泣，那已是遗憾，是过去。周围的空气似乎和你隔离了，默默地目睹你觉得无法承受的沉重。那是一个十分窄小的空间，只足够让你平躺不动，在这一刻里，你的生命已画上休止符。
[Three]
你又到哪里去了？我想着如何捎一张明信片给你，想着你在这个世界的那一隅。记忆里还有你的影子，毕竟和你相识那么久，一个熟络已极的轮廓绝对不会轻易被你的离去所抹逝。你从我眼前消失的那一天，我以为会如小说里头的情节一样下起绵绵细雨，实际上却是炎热的下午。我未曾见到你的最后一面，但我猜想你脸上挂着的是你一贯的微笑。是谁的巧手带出你的笑容，我不知道，只是我觉得你不会是快乐的。闭上的双眼空洞了，我知道你已经不能在乎任何事情，虽然你或许一厢情愿地希望可以再这么做。走在你的箱子旁时，我对你的记忆似乎开始了变化。空气之干燥，饥渴地吸尽我泪腺里的一切，和你度过的时光都沾上橘黄的一层，淡薄的一层记忆的膜，而我却无法利用泪水冲走它。我的样子应该很窘迫，你甚至会觉得我十分滑稽吧。记忆中的你常常在笑，记忆中的你非常天真！记忆中的！我一遍慢慢地走，在短暂的几分钟里彳亍，橘黄的膜不停地越积越厚，直至它成为你和我之间难以跨越的距离。我从你的箱子表面的反射看到它的扩大；它霸道地推挤，唯一的目的便是扭曲我意识里仍然呼吸的你。膜，和时间一样无情，我突然发现。你时常微笑吗？还是你总爱郁郁寡欢？我不清楚折几分钟里到底发生了什么事，也许我从来没有看清你，也许你只是我的呼与吸之间，一件时间的赝品。
无人辨别的出真伪的赝品？
{One}
They
say, a wait of five days will be safe before the burial.
{Two}
Post-death struggles must be mostly
painful. A tumultuous thrashing about of the will to live in a darkness where
no screams can be heard; or perhaps yes,
they can be but because of these been lost in irreversible tribulations,
nobody would ever hear of your cries. This is no "rest in peace".
You cannot leave, but your consciousness
eggs you to go on, go on. While the web of death has begun to encroach upon
you, you believe you are still alive. Because the temperature has started to
fall, you curl up into a fetal ball and
you realise as you hold your breath, you can hear your nails growing.
Scritchy-scratch，bit by bit, the sound thinning little by little, little by
little....
I
think you do not have the strength to sob anymore, for all that is mere regret
and passe. The air around seemed to be separate from you, closing in upon a
weight you can no longer bear. It is such a tiny space, only enough for you to
lie flat, at this point, your life has come to a halt. Period.
{Three}
Where
have you been? As I think of how to send you a postcard, with thoughts of you
in a certain corner of this world. I have memories of you, we have known each
other for so long, the all-too familiar face cannot be erased by your
departure. The day before your disappearance, I assumed it would rain like it
always did on the novels, but in fact, the afternoon was hot. I did not see you
for the last time, but I guessed you would be wearing your trademark smile. No,
I wouldn't know whose clever hands brought that smile upon your face but I know
deep inside you wouldn't be happy. Your eyes would close upon emptiness, you
cannot possibly mind any business by now, however hard you might wish you
could. As I walk beside your box, my memories of you began to morph. The
dryness of the thirsty air sapped my tear glands dry, and as all our memories
together got coated in a dusty film, there were no tears to wash it away. I
must have looked flustered, to the extent you would have found me funny. I
remembered you smiled so often and with such innocence! Oh memories! As I walked round
and round slowly, the orange film grew thicker, until it formed an
unsurpassable distance between you and me. I saw your box's expansion in the
reflection off its surface -- its oppressive stance bent on distorting my mental
image of you still breathing. The film was as ruthless as Time. Did you smile
that often? Or were you usually nonchalant? I was not sure what transpired in
those minutes as I walked, perhaps I had never looked at you properly, perhaps
you were just a figment of false belief born between my breaths, a forgery born
of Time.
And nobody could tell the fake from the
real?
