The wooden table’s corners have withered; the metal handle on the front door has been polished to a glossy shine through wear; layers of dust and paint are repeatedly applied to the gallery’s holes, disguising them as pristine white walls.
How many meals have our stomachs digested?
How many lost souls has our art responded to?
木桌的邊角枯了；正門的金屬把手被磨得油光發亮；厚重的灰與漆不斷塗抹畫廊的孔洞偽裝成光潔的白牆。
我們的胃消化了多少頓飯？
我們的藝術回應了多少迷踪的靈魂？
