dusk

You'd be lean and tall, an aloof man of middle age, faintly bearded, eyes lively and flickering.

This counts for little. You still hold onto some vision. To gauge my figure and silhouette would not be hard.

That said, should I shut my eyes and listen carefully, you occasionally seem too like a woman of cold face and warm heart...

Ahem.

I blurted that out. Don't mind it.

I don't, I don't. Or rather, I have a mind for how amusing it is.

Then what of touch? And taste?

Touch is the simplest of all. What I want to draw, I toy with in my hands, carefully feeling all around it.

That which is too large, I can simply move my desk to the side, and feel, think and draw alternately.

As for taste... it's funny to say, but I've given the flavors of ink cakes and paints a sample.

Knowing only a single paint's flavor isn't enough. I've mixed paints according to my previous experiences painting, had someone compare, and once the color was a perfect match, I took a few drops into my mouth, and committed the flavor to heart.

You... do not fear poisoning yourself?

To pick up the brush once again is my blessing as great as Heaven. The poison of a drop of paint is little to fear.

Enough. Knowing you've strived so greatly, the painting is bound not to fall short.

I'll disturb you no longer. Go.

Were you... waiting for me all this time here, sir?

Not exactly.

I was simply whiling time away on this street, saw you coming from afar, face pale, and came to greet you.

What happened?

My fellow artists pointed out many a shortcoming in this painting of mine... no more.

No more?

This was your first earnest painting since going blind. It's only natural it should hold shortcomings. Why so downcast all of a sudden?

Trifles, just... trifles.

You needn't concern yourself for me, sir, I'll... be going home.

Second-rate.

That much is right.

And incisive!

Of course a second-rate man would set his brush to a second-rate work, haha, hahah!

Hahah... hahaha...

So why is this painting second-rate?! What part of it is? How many years do you want my half-blind self slaving to see it?!

Forget it... My bone-obsequious self's impossible to shake now.

I'm worn, I'm tired. All good things come to an end. This was long overdue.

I just hate to let down that good sir... but I'm at the end of my rope.

The painter, eyes clouded, raises his head and looks to the ceiling rafters.

By his desk are the several bolts of tough silk that he resolved to purchase months ago.

After he finished painting, before setting out, he imagined scenes of all kinds. Warm ones, ice-cold ones, ones that would make one blush with shame.

The one scene he didn't imagine was that they would look at his painting, then look at him, and fall silent for a good while, before one among them—whoever it was—indifferently muttered the words 'second-rate.'

The others seemed to feel that excessive, and began to make addendum to those two words. However, after they'd finished doing so, not one of them had actually dissented to <i>those two words.</i>

And now, no longer does he see a need to paint anything on these silks.

The painter stands up, and throws one silk bolt to the rafters.

Mr. Ruan, I'd thought you were full of prospects. What are you doing here, still, seeking death after all?

Sir, what do you intend now by visiting me?

Whether a painting is good or bad should, first and foremost, be for its painter to appraise, shouldn't it?

I know you mean to encourage me, sir, but at this time, I can't hear anything but mockery in it.

Mockery?

Mr. Ruan, I merely ask you one question. Do you want to see how exactly the painting you made turned out, or not?

I'm tired. Don't let me keep you, sir.

Tell me.

How could I not want to?!

Then that makes things easier.

Simply listen to me, and this evening after the Hour of Yu, before tomorrow morning at the Hour of Ch'en, you will be sure to see clearly and think clearly.

I'm endlessly thankful for your kindness, sir. But while this staving off may save me for a time, it won't save me for the rest of it.

If the Hour of Yu comes, and all I see is still an impression, what will you do then?

These eyes of mine ail at their core. I've tried remedies one and all, none of which were any use. And you can restore my sight with a simple utterance? Can something so fine be true?

Do you think I'm some sage doctor?

Let me tell you this. If you truly want to see clearly tonight, then come the Hour of Ch'en tomorrow, you will lose all sight, all of it. It won't be an impression, it will be jet-black.

Is that... the solemn truth?

True and false are for you and you alone to determine.

If you're willing, you can go to bed right now, and you will naturally wake at the Hour of Yu. After the sun breaks at the end of night, at tomorrow's Hour of Ch'en, you will be cut off from light altogether.

If you're unwilling, then simply do not sleep. Sit at home doing nothing, or go out and bide your time. Either way, your eyes will not be getting better.

This... this is so sudden. If you could explain a little more thoroughly, sir...

There's nothing to explain. Sleep if you like to, wake if you like to. It's not as if anyone can tell you what to do.

Think it over by yourself.

The painter gazes to the white bolt of fabric fluttering in the rafters, then looks back at the scroll upon his desk, and adds no words more to the air.

He simply takes off his shoes, lies down on his couch fully clothed, and quickly falls asleep.

Once you regain your eyesight, and see your painting, you'll understand that it was not you that was lowly, but the prejudice living among them.

After that... peruse well.

Peruse books, peruse paintings, peruse the scenery tonight.

Even in a city this small, seeing it all in just a single short night is far too much of a rush.

A single short night—perhaps too short to finish even a dream.

For you, and for me, it's just too rushed.

It's gotten late, and I don't want to waste a moment.

I don't want to waste a moment, but it has... gotten late, after all.

It's—

It's the Hour of Yu, I'm sure, right now is the Hour of Yu!

The painter springs up from the couch, rushes to his desk, and opens the painting scroll ridiculed as second-rate, burning to see it and take it in.

This line here is crooked, this expression here is oblique, this coloring here is somewhat gaudy—

But these are all things you could fairly point out without hesitation.Why would they call this painting 'second-rate?'

This painting is about on par with the works from my auspicious twenties. How is it second-rate?

I'm going to find them and discuss—

No...

No!

I only have tonight... I only have tonight!

The sun dusks, the room dim and waning, but in the painter's eyes, every lamp shines bright as the sun, so dazzling he can barely keep his eyes open.

The gold, glistering light stabs to the point he drips with tears.

How he would love once again in this light to take in his own paintings, and his treasured masterpieces, gaze at the beautiful scenery and the common masses beyond the edges of the canvas.

But he only has tonight.

He drags the silk bolt down off the rafters, pulls off a length and mounts it on his board, and in a frenzy cleans his brushes, grinds his ink, and mixes his paints.

He lifts his fine brush, and before he's even thought about what to paint, his hand so accustomed to linework involuntarily begins to move.

Just as how hounded by the night that chases relentlessly, man will involuntarily desire to flee.

Just as how on seeing the madder sun that sinks gently, man will involuntarily desire to give chase.

Following contours and forming likenesses, he suddenly remembers an absurd story he heard long ago.

As night fell, a man chased the setting sun, running without stop.

He ran until his sweat rained down, until he'd drunk a stream dry, a lake dry, a great river dry.

But he still continued to run without stop.

Because he only had tonight.

The painter becomes aware of the parched sensation in his mouth, and picks up the brush-cleaning bowl by his side.

The water within is mixed with the ink from the brushes, one muddy mess by now.

He stares at this black water for a moment, then drinks it dry in one gulp, and after that thinks about nothing else.

He only has tonight.