有些文字的打散、重組、貼合或結束，有種細細的、幽微的、異常的、陌生的氣味從中飄出。
那是描述某天的某人前往看似在真實的場域，我可以見著河水的湍急、耳邊出現幻聽的水聲，要如何形容？唏哩嘩啦？還是轟隆轟隆呢？
看起來天氣不太好，我聞了聞，雨的氣味、土的味道，更精準地用文字說明那就是潮土油、土臭素，這六個字神奇的描述人類在嗅覺的共同記憶。
體感呢？風起雲湧，看到狂暴的樹在空氣中與看不到的敵人互相毆打，那肯定不是一個適合人類走在路上的好時間。
又或許，我是隔著一片窗戶描述著外面的景象？我不確定，文字的組合開始產生幻覺，一場沒人經歷的大風，一條沒人聽見的河流，一股記憶還是潛意識浮現的氣味，很多時候，我以為我是在那裡的。
Some words, scattered and pressed together, release something: thin, elusive, faintly strange. Someone is heading toward what looks like a real place. I can see the rush of the river. I hear phantom water. How to name it? A splash and gurgle, or a low rolling roar?
The weather looks unkind. I sniff. Rain. Earth. More precisely: petrichor, geosmin. Two words that carry a shared olfactory memory of humankind.
The sky churns. Trees gone feral, beating invisible enemies in the air. Not the hour for walking outside.
Or perhaps I am watching from behind glass. I am not certain. Words begin to hallucinate: a wind no one lived through, a river no one heard, a scent rising from memory or somewhere deeper. Many times, I thought I was there.