The Fluid folio wanders through liquid nature of memory, the continuous shifting of human circumstances and identity, and the wild surges and still waters of language. The pieces of original writing and translation in this folio are awash in rain, river, sea, and tears.
My child, we all become white-haired soon enough.
This was the first time he had seen so many exiled Tibetans of his own flesh and blood in a foreign land. Though they were only a few feet away, it was as if they were separated by ranges of mountains.
Think about it: if rain accumulating above someone / resumes descent, where does it fall?
From its very beginning this story is fated to be exposed by the light.
‘These were / all the gold coins that he laid by in a life of poverty, / saved up in the vault of his mind’