《写给女儿未来的信》作者：孟伟

一封来自春秋的信，

纸张泛着木黄素的沉积，

文字已磨损成

怦然心动过后的骸骨。

于是，我把它折成纸飞机，

递给站在童年边界的你。

去吧，飞向你表达的航道。

——

时间在门框上刻录。

你抬升的标高，我逐一

备份进诗行。

而那些无法量度的相伴，

拒绝被任何语法降维——

崭新的笑容，不该磨损成

磨损的比喻。

于是我决定，用一首系统诗

来续写这封未竟的信。

我转动笔尖的滚轴，

飞墨成一行行属于我们的四维暗语——

那些一起玩过的新词焊接游戏，

是你自己发明的。

青春会把你带进死胡同，

而你会自己找到跳出墙外指令。

十年后，当你把这张纸

从旧物箱底抽出来，

沿着我折叠了十年深夜的折痕，

轻轻展开——

那只纸飞机最初的折角，

还在。

——

一封来自未来的信——

当那些陌生的隐喻

在你语言的航道里，与塔台完成验证——

我希望你只为此刻骄傲：

不是因为它准确，

而是它曾如此固执地，

用一种未被批准的语言，

爱你。

对我来说，

想截屏的童年，在一声“长大”里滑走。

English version:

A Letter to My Daughter, in a Future Tense

by Mengwei

A letter from the Spring and Autumn era,
its paper stained with lignin deposits,
its words worn down to
the bones of a heartbeat, long after.

So I fold it into a paper airplane,
hand it to you standing at the edge of childhood.
Go. Fly into the channel of your own voice.

---

Time engraves itself on the doorframe.
Each mark of your rising height, I back up,
line by line, into these poems.

So I decide: to finish this unfinished letter
in the language of system poetry.

I spin the ballpoint's axis,
ink flying into lines of our four-dimensional code—
word-welding games we played together.
You invented them yourself.

Youth will lead you into dead ends,
but you'll find your own way out,
over the wall.

Ten years from now, when you pull this paper
from the bottom of an old box,
and trace the crease where I folded
ten years of late nights,
and gently open it—

the original corner of that paper airplane,
still there.

---

A letter from a future tense—
when those strange metaphors
in the channel of your voice
complete their verification with the tower—

I hope your pride, in that moment, is only this:
not that it was accurate,
but that it loved you
so stubbornly,
in a language never approved.

For me,
the childhood I wanted to screenshot
swipes away
in a single sound: "Dad."

《乐观》作者：孟伟

时间在内存中帧移。

像耐心的进程，正逐行安抚

窗外每一片坠向大地的雪，

使其免于惊慌的登录。

这种此在的自问，是对抗熵增的

最低功耗响应。

时间在键盘上结晶。

光标犁开冰封的思绪，令其凝结、

飘散为屏前的雪。

这勇敢的筹备，清醒的坍缩，

这无目的的消散——

每一片，都是系统提交的

一份熵增报告，

亦是存在的签名。

时间在门框上刻录。

女儿抬升的标高，是它逃逸的

一组非易失性日志。

或叠进书包的夹层，

或混入早餐的碎光，

或隐于通勤变道的盲区。

而我，是那追逐的算法，

在自己编织的感知网络里，

实时抓取时间暗涌的 流量与波型。

可时间终究是影。

每一次打捞的企图，其反馈数据

都已被自身激起的涟漪 所篡改。而这篡改的行为本身，

竟成了系统生成的一份

确凿的负熵日志——

一份关于观测如何

永久扰动那

不可缓存之月的

终极日志。

English version:

Optimism

By Meng Wei

Time frame-shifts in memory.
Like a patient process, soothing line by line
each snowflake falling toward the earth outside the window,
sparing it from panicked login.
This Dasein's self-questioning is the lowest-power response
against entropy.

Time crystallizes on the keyboard.
The cursor plows through frozen thoughts, condensing them,
scattering them as snow before the screen.
This brave preparation, this sober collapse,

this purposeless dissipation—
each flake is an entropy report
submitted by the system,
and also existence's signature.

Time engraves on the doorframe.
My daughter's rising height is its escaping
set of non-volatile logs.
Folded into the lining of her schoolbag,
or mixed into the scattered light of breakfast,
or hidden in the blind spots of commuting lane changes.
And I am the algorithm in pursuit,
in the perceptual network I myself wove,
capturing in real time the flow and waveforms
of time.

But time is, after all, a shadow.
Every attempt to salvage it, its feedback data
has already been by the ripples it itself stirred.
And this act of falsify itself
has become tangibale negative entropy log
generated by the system—
an ultimate log
of how observation permanently disturbs
that uncacheable moon.

33.《肺炎》作者：孟伟

我，一颗合胞病毒。

并非入侵，只是被涡流

卷入系统咽喉——

一次沉默的对接：

我的编码，叩问你们的城门。

我与你们一样，热衷聚集、

吸附，甚至更具耐心。

在待机状态潜伏八日，不触发

任何警报。

我的工作同样单调：

指挥核-糖体组装线，

协同外采配件，

将氨基酸拼装成

看似崭新的协议。

再排给流水线，

进行无止境的 自我誊写

—— 如标准作业员，

反复

提交同一份标准答案。

当然，高强度复制会过载。

尤其那些老旧、或新装未磨合的

设备，会爆发一阵阵过度规整的、

属于人类格式的咳嗽警报。

这意味产品已滞销，堆满了

所有内部的管线与仓储空间。

若系统无法自主排异与清仓，

工程师的介入便成为绝对律令。

当输液经由标准的工业阀门，

被定量注入中央管道，

那持续 尖啸的散热噪声，

才获得片刻 降频。

而虚弱，只是系统

为对抗熵增，

主动调低的 基础功耗与全局算力。

我是一颗合胞病毒。

我并无纯粹恶意。

这只是 一场履行自身契约的、

对抗自身寂灭的

负熵演习。

English version:

Pneumonia

by Mengwei

I, a respiratory syncytial virus.
Not an invasion—just swept by the vortex
into the system's throat—
a silent handshake:
my code knocking at your gates.

I'm like you: I like to cluster,
to adsorb, and I have more patience.
In standby mode I lurk eight days, triggering
no alarm.

My work is just as monotonous:
commanding the ribosome assembly line,
coordinating outsourced parts,
piecing amino acids
into protocols that look brand new.
Then feeding them to the conveyor belt
for endless
self-copying—
like a standard operator,
repeatedly
submitting the same standard answer.

Of course, high-intensity replication overloads.
Especially those old, or newly installed and unseasoned
units—they erupt in bursts of overly regular,
human-format cough alarms.
It means the products are unsold, clogging
every internal pipeline and storage space.

If the system can't self-purge and clear inventory,
the engineer's intervention becomes absolute law.
When the IV drip, through standard industrial valves,
is metered into the central pipeline, the continuous
screeching of heat-dissipation noise gets
a momentary frequency drop. And weakness—
just the system, to fight entropy,
voluntarily lowering
its baseline power and global compute.

I am a respiratory syncytial virus.
I bear no pure malice. This is merely
a performance of my own contract,
a negentropy drill
against my own extinction.

《梦见自己》作者：孟伟

梦，在肉身之外的时间和空间层来回飞行。

未被身体签字的存在，

无法由键盘录入根目录。

我曾以为启动脉冲思索，

让体验与想象溢出缓存，

写一行诗，

便能入选进你的索引。

梦在失事前演习，

引身体走向悬崖，

储存每一次坠落的密钥，

让下一次登入，

少一点惶惑。

梦在领会与操心的进程间徘徊：

它偷听闲言的碎片，

如躺在床上滚动着无序的热搜；

它好奇回忆的连接结构，

如半夜唤醒理想，去新大陆

给路牌命名。

它维护做梦者的模棱两可——

出门锁门，半路折返，再确认。

在潜意识里备份子目录，又清空被调用的日志，

以维持矛盾的日常运行。

梦在自身上下锚。

悬崖边那块反复演习的石，

早已记住坠落的姿势，

试图破译自身激起的、

那圈涟漪渐弱的回波。

尤其在监管程序

进入低功耗休眠的间隙——

我试图，向真实系统的命令流中 

植入一个锚点，

或写入一行注脚。

我保证不占据你的内核，

只在你宣称的无限边缘，

描下我此刻存在的、易失的

刻度。

English version:

 Dreaming of Oneself

By Meng Wei

Dream soars at the interface layer between existence and time,
therefore it is not real—never having compiled
the body into the root directory of the dream.

Just as in youth, I thought
initiating the pulse of thought,
letting experience, imagination, and expression overflow the cache,
converging into a poem,
I would possess the world's complete index.

Dream wanders between the processes of apprehension and care:
it eavesdrops on fragments of idle talk,
like me scrolling through disordered trending topics;
it is curious about the linked-list structure of memory,
like me naming vertical entropy;
it maintains the dreamer's ambiguity,
like me both backing up subdirectories
and clearing called logs, to maintain the illusion of smooth operation.

Dream casts anchor within itself.
I admit this ambition:
like a falling stone,
trying to decipher the fading ripples
it itself stirs.

Especially in the gap
when the system's main supervisory program
enters low-power hibernate---

I attempt to implant an anchor point
into the command stream of the real system,
or write a single line of footnote.
I promise not to occupy your kernel,
only at the infinite edge you proclaim,
to carve the volatile evidence and scale
of my existence at this moment.