Knot, as record. Carvings on the wall, as drawing. The ancient people attempted to communicate with later generations through many methods. I continuously repeat actions to record and imply the once-existence of acts of life. Through repeated knotting, I leave a record. Every ceramic needle is a character stroke, word by word, sentence by sentence, recording the vanishing time that pass by me. Every piece of time leaves its memory and the memory sinks and flows in the river of brainwaves, remembering each carving stroke. Mutually implicating and entangling, I weave a frame with myself as the center into a biological-like but non-biological form, like the cocoons of insects that hang in midair, like the calluses on the palm that one does not feel and cannot get rid of, like a flirt so intense like life and death. It is precisely like the meaning of memory to me-it's illusory and not real.