超超

A record of one ordinary Sunday: tidying the flat, a slow home-cooked meal, a forty-minute walk, twenty pages read — and why a weekend is not something to be squared away.

Graduated on 18 June 2026. In the blink of an eye, some reflections on study, farewells, and a certain dazed melancholy.

The second day after Taiyuan’s December snow, I took a bus north to Nanzhai Park in Jiancaoping District — once the Nanzhai Nursery, founded in 1956, now 361,000 square metres. At minus ten: pigeons, a frozen pond, chairs cut from whole logs, and a few millstones that spell out “round sky, square earth”.

Three rides on Taiyuan’s riverside cycleway — 24, 25 and 28 June 2024 — of 57.14, 60.26 and 55.10 kilometres. Every figure here comes from the watch’s workout records; what I saw along the water, and what I never got round to riding, is in here too.

A museum built on the in-situ preservation of the Northern Qi tomb of Xu Xianxiu — the first museum in China devoted entirely to Northern Qi murals, with more than 330 square metres of painting, three exhibition halls, and digital displays that set the Ascending to Heaven mural in motion.

A late-April afternoon at Shuangta Park in Taiyuan: the beamless brick halls of Yongzuo Temple, a pair of pagodas known as the finest twins in China, and the Ming-dynasty peony “Zixiaxian” in front of the Mahavira Hall.

Not to be admired and not to fit anyone’s picture of me — the plainest answer is: so that I have a choice.

No grand goals inside, only three small verifiable things: expectation is the cheapest kind of fuel.

Ten minutes under the eaves quietened the restlessness too: let the feeling come, but don’t stop walking.

Every plan fell apart today; picking out the two things still possible kept the direction. Plans are not for precision.