The corners of the wooden table had withered with time; the metal front door handle shone bright from years of hands; thick layers of plaster and paint smeared over nail holes in the galleries, pretending to be flawless white walls.
How many meals has our stomach digested?
How many lost souls does our art still answer 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？
