1. The first time I noticed a sword in person was in the Field Museum in Chicago. Passing some prehistory theme dioramas, I stopped by an archway from which things feel parched and sophisticated. I was seized by a rusty sword in a Chinese exhibition room. Its handle and blade blend into one like a piece of unknown material. A faceless man, the sword is in its hibernation.

It is said that after long enough time, even ivory turns into a loaf of white bread. It seems the sword has a determination. I put my right hand over the glass. It matched the grip.

It was a strong feeling that shook me:
a thunderbolt confirmation that the past truly exists, in the instance that I recognize it. I lost in thoughts about my relationship with the sword, about my being or non-being thousands of years before. The sword is an opportunity.

A reliable measure that marks the blank periods before my consciousness. The sword made a small cut on the membrane that wraps my individual history. From there particles of me were discharged, touching the universal time. The shore lies still, before a wave returns to the sea: they exchange. It seems that I can breathe the sword’s breath. The sword lies still and makes the come-and-go of time make sense to me.
2.