Essay
Talking Too Much at Three A.M.
凌晨三点，话太多
The flat is quiet after two. My roommate goes to bed at eleven because he is a serious person with a morning. I stay up. I have tried the other way and it doesn't take. By three the building stops making noise and the only sound is the laptop fan and me, talking to nobody.
I talk a lot. My friends will tell you. In a day I say maybe four hundred sentences, and about a hundred of them are to myself, at night, about photographs. Last night I explained for twenty minutes why one frame had to stay and the other eleven had to go. The room was asleep. I kept going anyway.
I think out loud because inside my head the sentences keep interrupting each other.
The frame was a woman waiting for a tram at eleven at night, in a grey tank top under an open jacket, holding a plastic bag against her leg. Nothing happens in it. She isn't doing anything. The tram light hit the wet pavement and the bag and her hand, and that was the whole photograph.
What I Deleted and Why
The other eleven were the same woman, worse. In one the tram was arriving and blocked the light. In another she had turned, and the picture became a picture of a person noticing a camera, which is a different and much smaller thing. I kept the one where she was still inside her own evening.
There is a version of this where I am a considerate person who asks. There is also the version where the asking ruins it, and I have tried both, and I don't have a rule yet. I'm twenty-two. I'm allowed to not have a rule for a while longer, but not forever, and I know it.
The camera makes me brave for one second and a coward for the rest of the week.
The Hour Before Sleep
Around four I close the laptop and go stand on the balcony, which is small and looks at another balcony. Sarajevo at four is fog and a few windows. Somebody is always awake. I like that more than I should — the evidence that I'm not the only one up here, whatever they're doing it for.
Then I sleep until eleven, miss a lecture, and do it again. My roommate says I'm wasting the good hours. He might mean the morning. He might mean my twenties. I've decided not to ask which, because the answer would keep me up later than I already am.
中文译文
两点以后屋里就静了。室友十一点睡，因为他是个有早晨的正经人。我熬夜。我试过反过来，不成。到三点，整栋楼不再出声，只剩下电脑风扇和我——对着空气说话。
我话很多。朋友都能作证。一天里我大概说四百句话，其中一百句是说给自己听的，在夜里，说照片。昨晚我讲了二十分钟，为什么一张要留，另外十一张得删。房间早就睡了。我还是讲完了。
我出声想事情，是因为在心里那些句子总打断彼此。
那张照片是个等电车的女人，夜里十一点，深灰背心外面套着敞开的外套，塑料袋贴着腿。画面里什么也没发生。她什么也没在做。电车的光落在湿路面上，落在袋子和她的手上，这就是整张照片。
我删掉了什么，为什么
另外十一张是同一个女人，更差。有一张电车进站，把光挡住了。有一张她转过头，照片就变成一个人发现镜头的照片，那是另一回事，小得多。我留下的是她还待在自己那个晚上里的那张。
有一种说法是，我该做个体贴的人，上前去问。也有一种说法是，一问就毁了。两种我都试过，到现在也没定下规矩。我二十二岁，还可以有一阵子没有规矩，但不能永远没有，这我知道。
相机让我勇敢一秒钟，剩下的一个星期我都在心虚。
睡前那一个小时
四点左右我合上电脑去阳台站着。阳台很小，正对着另一个阳台。四点的萨拉热窝是雾和几扇亮着的窗。总有人醒着。我比自己该有的程度更喜欢这件事——它证明待在这里的不止我一个，不管他们是为了什么。
然后我睡到十一点，翘掉一节课，再来一遍。室友说我在浪费好时光。他可能指早晨，也可能指我的二十几岁。我决定不问是哪个，因为答案会让我比现在睡得还晚。
