Zhao Song, Translated by Foldii

The Back of the Moon

Twenty-two ripples. Nineteen ripples. Three ripples. When they arrive, every transparent sea is just a ripple. And here is the last one, a fuzzy margin. The force which ends the ripples has sealed the turbulent time in the rock clock and let it vibrate. The time is hollow; it sleeps; it receives impact and echoes. As it approaches suffocation, we could not hear how the force pulling the distant tides raise the endless silence to nine kilometers. Repeated scorching. Repeated cooling. Ash is deaf, from the last ripple. You step forward across the universe. You are still in the ripples, in the ash, and that is your limit. Here is the back of the world, you can't see the shadow, you can't see yourself. Previously, like everyone else, you are blind. Here, the universe is going slowly away. Everything is expanding, and you are gray. You jump and fall, silently. You record every step; this is the last time. When the spaceship is still in orbit around the moon, you have counted the ripples, rename them, and use the names of the dead in the vortex of memory. At this moment, you have reached the center of the ripples, according to the positioning guidelines. You are controlling the vast automatic drilling machine, aiming at the position of the so-called lunar gate. You tell yourself this is not a dream; dreams exist on the earth, here only the critical point, between has or has not. Before the asteroid crashes the earth into a splendid firework, you have to open the door which people have guessed for many years, and then stay. To this end, you should avoid memories, you should hold your breath, let time disappear, and keep this only chance of escaping.