INK

8pm. Living room. Music, friends, drinks and food. Muffled thunder. I walked in the unlit bedroom and opened the window, smelling the gentle rain in which stood a black-clothed man.

When watering the land with a hose, he encounters a dying octopus. After a bite, he retains it in a fish tank. He takes a seat trying to enjoy a tranquil moment. But his thoughts cannot stop spraying out as his mind cannot get rid of the octopus.

Movements of surface water. Here comes a manlike Octopus. A fantasy? The man beats it, waters it, plays with it, but fails to tame it. Rage, fear or pleasure? Mind-stirring sequence. Bewitched by a glittering lullaby, he becomes restless in front of those hidden red eyes. Who am I? Where am I? Is the curtain black?

Floppy fish. Unstoppable desire. My one-way destiny. I paint my lust; I picture my nature of parental love. But all kinds of love are fatal, with no exception.

Eyes wide open. Racing heart. Bloody cloak and hose. Is the Octopus tamable? Or is it haunting me? Every story has an end. So does every fantasy. Endless waves.

I left the bedroom, leaving the man flinging a dead octopus on the floor. Was that the sound of thunder? The music from the living room became clearer: “Finally, we’re all alone…”