So what makes my life? Where is my world? Some people’s life struggles can be some others’ symbolic rhetoric. Some’s institutional traumas can be some others’ anesthetic fantasy. East or West, what difference do we really have? How essentially different is it to live in London or Beijing? There is no real escape, only relocation, only the slight variation in the ripples created when our existence collides with different corners of this immense system. I pack my life into boxes again and again, like a lich hiding their phylactery. I’m still alive, yet no one knows the reasons for me to be.