In Paris servants live at the top of the house. True love rarely descends below the fifth floor, and then sometimes it jumps out the window...since 1830, love is one of the worst disgrace for a young man... --Stendhal (1783-1842), Memoirs of a Tourist (1837) A gramophone record of a French pianists Private sonata playing is handed down to her Although it has been re-recorded several times, With scratch sounds and murmurous noises Like shadows flickering on a busy sunset boulevard, Its capriccioso theme yet is as lively as a spiraling swallow Flying hugging the ground as if its going to peck her eye... Many years later When she accidentally broke into His secret room, his epoch She cravingly searched every corner For the treasure once she gave to him But it was just another usual day Outside the window bicycle bells were ringing serenely Finally saw how his room is decorated She could not help but trying to contaminate, to defile Every single thing, including the most trivial bric-a-bracs She believed nothing in his room is not insinuating Some subtle details of his new lover But she did her best to keep the setting intact it seems She carefully restored all the wrinkles and draperies Even a tiny dust on a flower At the beginning she simply heard the record frequently But gradually she found something strange behind the music-- Some frizzling sounds like clothes rubbing each other Or two embraced lovers trying so hard to hold their breath She doesnt know whether it is from the original sound track Or left carelessly by somebody else during re-recording... Then she pretended to live his life-- Reading his books, lying on his bed, opening his fridge-- She realized that he is just a common old guy But a faint siren from afar generated her acousma, at which High-pitched giggles and cynical sniffs rendezvoused She couldnt find any clue of her own past In his second-empire-style room, as if she never existed So be its completely indifferent now At least, he and his lovers intimate photo No longer provokes against her When she escaped, she felt so lost yet so relieved... Mnemosyne has bulimia, Purging history after binging memories Her crime of love, after all, couldnt compete to His perfect alibi... The glossy surface of the piano is like the slick skin Inviting the slender hands with pale blue veins to sink Another young man of this same southern town was even more heroic. To save the honor of a woman he adored, he undertook to descend from the sixth floor with the help of a single bed-sheet, which meant that he jumped down... --Stendhal (1783-1842), Memoirs of a Tourist (1837)* --

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