Wu Jing-shuang

Two 60-ish Taiwanese men share ambiguous closeness, built on ritual and obscurity in an old local bathhouse. Amidst a near-death accident, the body offers a final confession, revealing a lifetime of repressed desire that surfaces only when time runs out.

As human beings, do we have the right to decide to end our own life? And do we have any rights over other people's life and death?

One rainy afternoon, the sound of a vendor calling out "Fix your screen windows, screen doors - Install new glass!" summoned this daydream. I traveled with the repairman to Toad Mountain in search of the maiden he so vividly described. But the houses here had long crumbled into ruin.

Two 60-ish Taiwanese men share ambiguous closeness, built on ritual and obscurity in an old local bathhouse. Amidst a near-death accident, the body offers a final confession, revealing a lifetime of repressed desire that surfaces only when time runs out.

As human beings, do we have the right to decide to end our own life? And do we have any rights over other people's life and death?

One rainy afternoon, the sound of a vendor calling out "Fix your screen windows, screen doors - Install new glass!" summoned this daydream. I traveled with the repairman to Toad Mountain in search of the maiden he so vividly described. But the houses here had long crumbled into ruin.