ALT Toilet Hua XiIssue 250, Winter 2024 A toenail clipping floating in a toilet bowl like a crescent moon reflected in water, beauty is quiet and self-conscious. A character in a novel sits on the toilet. Sometimes for forever. Speaking of which, where does the shit of a billion people go? Back into the countryside. In my country, where a man wheels a cart of mud, and with his gray felt cap bends down to examine the small acorns. I squatted over a toilet until I shit a cloud out into a pure blue sky. One day, I hope it provides a little boy shade as he eats wild apples with his dog. A place to read.

ALT After all, the field where my father went at night is now a university. And a toilet is a peaceful place to think of home to be alone with the rustle of banana leaves on the shutters and realize the night has stopped raining. No, we never ate enough, and yes, we had trouble going, my aunt says. She gets up to go to the bathroom, and I wonder which parts are most painful, hidden behind a stone wall on which a single yellow canary lands every day. Me? At the very least, I’ll pee every day until I die. Then a person dies and I realize even peeing is beautiful. Like a library just before closing. At the end of the day, it is my life.