他们没有要去的地方，
也没有来处，
只是穿过一些无法被记住的光。
有人说，那是渡口，
但也许只是时间弯曲的一道纹，
站在上面的人，
不会留下影子。
一开始，他们还试图说出名字，
但每发一个音节，
就有一部分自我，被剥落，被退回系统底部，
他们便沉默了。
不是为了隐匿，
而是为了不再被定义。
有时候，渡船会来。
没有橹，没有风，也没有目的地。
只是空白，在呼吸之间摆渡，
把“存在”这一词，
悄悄送往另一种结构。
他们将自己的语言丢进水里，
水不响，
但慢慢发亮，像被遗漏的火。
那不是交换。
渡口不讲价，也不设门槛。
只要你愿意失去自己，
就能获得一种
不被需要记住的形式。
你不必说你是谁。
你只要说，你已经不是了。
在这里，
身份是一次又一次脱落的皮肤，
思想，是未完成的句子，
而身体，
只是一次短暂停留在某个系统坐标上的误差。
渡口没有彼岸，
也没有岸。
它只是一种
持续存在的犹豫。
Anonymous’s Ferry: A Poetic Crossing on Existence and Identity
They have nowhere to go,
and no place they came from—
only a passage through light that forgets.
Some call it a crossing,
but perhaps it’s merely a wrinkle in bent time,
where those who stand
leave no shadow behind.
At first, they tried to speak their names,
but with every syllable released,
a piece of self was stripped away, returned to the system’s silent underlayer.
So they grew quiet.
Not to hide,
but to stop being defined.
Sometimes, a vessel arrives.
It has no oar, no wind, no destination.
Only blankness, drifting between breaths,
ferrying the word “existence”
into another structure.
They toss their language into the water.
The water does not echo.
But it begins to glow—like fire misplaced.
This is not exchange.
The crossing does not bargain, nor does it build thresholds.
If you’re willing to lose yourself,
you may obtain
a form no longer in need of remembering.
You don’t need to say who you are.
You only need to say: you are no longer that.
Here,
identity is skin that molts again and again.
Thought is a sentence left unfinished.
And the body—
just a temporary glitch on someone’s coordinate grid.
The crossing has no other shore.
No shore at all.
Only a kind of
endless hesitation.