My eyes were hurt by the light. Or crying. They are cruel but not treacherous. Our next conversation was of war and traveling. Between continents and between loves I’m working with two blunt pencils. What will become of the horses in Van? The windmills are squeezed against the mountains. A bright fluid circulates among the soldiers. They are roasting rebels in the snuffbox. I’m carrying a flagpole without a flag. The Turkish salute is a slight inclination of the head. A hand on the breast. Heat and vermin lie in the cottage.
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Today I am sporting a painted complexion
Today I am a tapestry
Today I am a rouged dowager
After getting up, I, maid of the paternity lie, will climb on the face, powder on the cheeks and the palm and paint a little rouge I have come out from refuge of Jehol, a fortified town, in a wild and rugged mountain pass. I have covered my face with white cake make-up and placed patches of cherry rouge on my cheeks and lower lip. Grandmother Jia has cut the cards.