"I was probably born around 1970, in a small village 170 kilometers east of Mandalay, a city in central Myanmar, not even marked on the map. I can no longer remember who my parents were..."
The sunset slowly descended,
In the gatekeeper's room, an old-fashioned oil lamp was lit, the flame flickering like a bean, with a faint scent of wood smoke, slightly choking, reminiscent of the poor-quality ink of the past.
Uncle Ah Lai might be curious, wanting to see what this little fellow, ignorant of the world, is really up to.
Or perhaps he was just drawn by the Myanmar Mirror's news, stirring memories of the turbulent past.
He fell silent for a few minutes and surprisingly began to recount his story.
The gatekeeper's voice was hoarse, yet his tone was rhythmic.
As he narrated, it was as if an ancient medieval bard was singing a long narrative poem.
Gu Weijing did not wait until the end to start drawing this line sketch.
