なぜここにいるのか分からない。目の前にいる男は、あの人ではない。なにかずっと楽しげに話している横顔を見ていると、記憶の中のあの人と重なっていくのが分かった。そういえば、あの人の言葉はあまり記憶にない。私は一体どの記憶を重ねているのか。
思い出せるのは、電線を介して届く、信号に置き換えられた後の音声。ブラウン管テレビの光で照らされた煙。陰謀論じみた極端な政治話を示す、押し付けがましい文字の羅列。身体を掻き毟りたくなるほど嫌いなのに。

I don’t know why I am here.The man before me is not him.
As I watch his profile—tilted toward some private delight, speaking on and on—I feel it slowly overlap with the one in my memory. They begin to fuse, as if the present were tracing an old transparency. And yet, come to think of it, I can hardly recall his words at all. What memory is it that I am layering over this face?
What returns to me is not a voice, but a transmission—sound reduced to signals, traveling through electric wires before reaching me. Smoke lit by the pallid glow of a cathode-ray screen. Rows of insistent letters, pressing forward with conspiracy-laced political fervor, extreme and airless.I hated it—hated it enough to want to claw at my own skin. And still, it is this that remains.

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model: Rollo