I lowered the lamp to raise a shadow

I lowered the lamp to raise a shadow

If you really think you are a poet, send her not poems but money. Read about somewhere – pretend to forget where – that celebrates epistolary relationships. Not in the past, seventeen, nineteenth, eighteen, but the future utopia, twenty, twenty. People who use scientific jargons to depict childish ideas are no different from the decadent writings in French of frivolous thoughts in sombre and literary tone. 

If you think you are a writer, write not words but numbers and decimals on your notebook, incomes and liabilities, surplus and deficits, plus minus. Write from the back, from recto to verso, like how a Chinese book should be read. Stop singing, stop irritating those walking or working next to you, stop telling people that there is always a book reference for every day-today issue, for every thought in their head.

If you think you are a painter, paint not on canvas. Paint on walls not pictures but an even colour. Paint on furniture, unstable tables your friend made. Use enamel, emulsion, and lacquer not oil or acrylic. Paint drips on your boots like a worker, not an artist.  Draw on a sketchbook so that it is easy to keep but almost impossible to exhibit.