‘A struggle to start writing about something, without adding to or subtracting from its weight
being tricked by a longing for lightness
to endure heaviness
has its silver lining: one can still sense weight
passing the point that makes black humor
come distances, varied:
geographical, physical, in between those involved
'things that ought to come' does not mean being ready for such
the foresight prompts much odd rhythms
ungraspable without the pulse of some apparatus
light is rhythmic
a nonverbal correspondence
one instinctive, one austere
an exquisite corpse
proving difficult to dissect
everything revolves around that bed
— which I slept on
life, death, mirth, and nightmare
a pole, a lightning rod
first entrance through a veil-skirt hung mid air
the collapse of one's own abode
all is a stage
absurd, sore, romantic fragments
a play is but the wait for its happenings
inevitable baggage: the objects
in front of the partition await those waiting for their allotted number
Uhm,
Exit one whom Heaven calls forth.’

- Notes from a hiccup-ish conversation between curator Đạt Nguyễn and a newfound friend, Ngân on EYES WITHOUT A FACE