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drowsy universe nodding off to sleep.
    Occasionally another group of flying objects will emerge from the city’s rooftops to keep the pigeons company—these are kites. They often get caught on the netlike electrical wires, sometimes breaking their wings from the impact, and end up dangling from the edges of the rooftops and electric poles, whence they stare helplessly at the flocks of pigeons. Kites are created in the image of pigeons, but in the end they cannot compare even with sparrows; even so, humanity invests them with all its naïve aspirations. The hands of children set them in flight, as do the hands of vagabonds, who are, after all, children who never grew up. String in hand, the children and vagabonds run with all their might, trying to send their kites up into the heavens. But, predictably, they meet an early demise on their way up. Only a sacred few actually make it up into the sky. What ecstasy when one finally weasels its way into a flock of pigeons and is able to soar with them!
    On the day of the Tomb-Sweeping Festival, the tattered remains of kites whipped by wind and rain present the spectacle of a love suicide on the rooftops. Gradually they disintegrate into the dirt, giving sustenance to a few weak strands of green bristle grass. Sometimes, as kites are ascending, they will break free of their strings and slowly become a small black dot in the sky before disappearing. Theirs is a grand escape, backed by the resolution to die in a worthy cause.
    Only pigeons are faithful to humans until death; they fly through the skies as if determined to bring comfort and solace to this city—this city like a dried-up ocean, where the buildings are ships stranded on a forest of coral reefs. How many people are suffering here! How could they simply abandon them and leave? In this godless city, pigeons are the closest thing to a god. But they are a god that no one believes in—they alone understand their sacred signs—all we know is that no matter how far away they may fly, they always brave the long flight home. Men seem to have an eternal soft spot for pigeons deep in their hearts, especially those people living in rooftop tingzijian , where pigeons bound for their own nests fly past their dormer windows. Although there are all kinds of temples and churches in this city, temples are temples, churches are churches—the people of this city belong to the alleys. Seen from above, people in the alleys look like little dots drifting on the billows; the pigeons’ whistles send their gentle warnings, day after day, night after night, eternally sounding out through the sky.
    Presently, the sun sprays out over the unbroken expanse of rooftop tiles, bathing everything in golden light. The pigeons leave their nests, their wings showing white against the sky. The tall buildings resemble buoys floating on the ocean’s surface. The city becomes animated with movement and activity, building up into the quiet roar of the sea. The dust also begins to stir restlessly in a hazy cloud. Germs of events quickly brew into causes and conclusions; already intense feelings are running rampant. As densely packed windows and doors are opened and last night’s stale air rushes out and intermingles, the sunlight becomes turbid, the sky darkens, and the dance of the dust begins to slow. Something too tangled to unravel begins to grow in the air, choking off vitality and passion. The freshness of morning turns into a depressing gloom, inward excitement is quelled, but all those small beginnings keep on breeding all kinds of consequences—what you sow you shall reap. The sun in the sky traverses its usual path; light and shadow move slowly. All signs of stirring have settled, along with the dust, into their normal state, the way they do day after day, year after year. Every trace of romance has been silenced. The heavens hang high aloft and the clouds are pale as the last flock of pigeons disappears into the distance.

Wang Qiyao
     
    Wang