Like all the other rooms, this bedroom contains a mirror in which I am not reflected. I gaze and gaze into it, trying to become real. It’s no good, no mirror will reflect the face of a person whose soul is in China. How can I go on going about like this, a laughing-stock, a half-thing, an object of mockery to the sticky tongue of hibiscus flowers.
My soul in China, 78.
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