My hometown is in a small village in northern Guangdong. It was precisely this unique environment, where "Dialects vary from village to village," that allowed me to speak five dialects from childhood.
But as time goes by, I've noticed dialects quietly fading away: peers converse less in dialect, and most of the younger generation can't speak them at all. I understand this is an inevitable part of history, where countless voices fade into silence over time. But, witnessing the gradual loss of this cultural heritage still fills me with regret.
As a photographer, I felt compelled to leave my own mark on this phenomenon. I chose dialects as my project theme, attempting to translate the auditory into the visual. Using my phone, I documented the present state and future of dialects—from the passing down of dialect theater traditions to the linguistic disconnect between generations. If only one voice could linger in our ears, dialects would fade like ripples dying down or flames growing dim, becoming inscriptions carved into history or ultimately preserved only in audio-visual archives.

My hometown is in a small village in northern Guangdong. It was precisely this unique environment, where "Dialects vary from village to village," that allowed me to speak five dialects from childhood.
But as time goes by, I've noticed dialects quietly fading away: peers converse less in dialect, and most of the younger generation can't speak them at all. I understand this is an inevitable part of history, where countless voices fade into silence over time. But, witnessing the gradual loss of this cultural heritage still fills me with regret.
As a photographer, I felt compelled to leave my own mark on this phenomenon. I chose dialects as my project theme, attempting to translate the auditory into the visual. Using my phone, I documented the present state and future of dialects—from the passing down of dialect theater traditions to the linguistic disconnect between generations. If only one voice could linger in our ears, dialects would fade like ripples dying down or flames growing dim, becoming inscriptions carved into history or ultimately preserved only in audio-visual archives.

My hometown is in a small village in northern Guangdong. It was precisely this unique environment, where "Dialects vary from village to village," that allowed me to speak five dialects from childhood.
But as time goes by, I've noticed dialects quietly fading away: peers converse less in dialect, and most of the younger generation can't speak them at all. I understand this is an inevitable part of history, where countless voices fade into silence over time. But, witnessing the gradual loss of this cultural heritage still fills me with regret.
As a photographer, I felt compelled to leave my own mark on this phenomenon. I chose dialects as my project theme, attempting to translate the auditory into the visual. Using my phone, I documented the present state and future of dialects—from the passing down of dialect theater traditions to the linguistic disconnect between generations. If only one voice could linger in our ears, dialects would fade like ripples dying down or flames growing dim, becoming inscriptions carved into history or ultimately preserved only in audio-visual archives.

My hometown is in a small village in northern Guangdong. It was precisely this unique environment, where "Dialects vary from village to village," that allowed me to speak five dialects from childhood.
But as time goes by, I've noticed dialects quietly fading away: peers converse less in dialect, and most of the younger generation can't speak them at all. I understand this is an inevitable part of history, where countless voices fade into silence over time. But, witnessing the gradual loss of this cultural heritage still fills me with regret.
As a photographer, I felt compelled to leave my own mark on this phenomenon. I chose dialects as my project theme, attempting to translate the auditory into the visual. Using my phone, I documented the present state and future of dialects—from the passing down of dialect theater traditions to the linguistic disconnect between generations. If only one voice could linger in our ears, dialects would fade like ripples dying down or flames growing dim, becoming inscriptions carved into history or ultimately preserved only in audio-visual archives.

My hometown is in a small village in northern Guangdong. It was precisely this unique environment, where "Dialects vary from village to village," that allowed me to speak five dialects from childhood.
But as time goes by, I've noticed dialects quietly fading away: peers converse less in dialect, and most of the younger generation can't speak them at all. I understand this is an inevitable part of history, where countless voices fade into silence over time. But, witnessing the gradual loss of this cultural heritage still fills me with regret.
As a photographer, I felt compelled to leave my own mark on this phenomenon. I chose dialects as my project theme, attempting to translate the auditory into the visual. Using my phone, I documented the present state and future of dialects—from the passing down of dialect theater traditions to the linguistic disconnect between generations. If only one voice could linger in our ears, dialects would fade like ripples dying down or flames growing dim, becoming inscriptions carved into history or ultimately preserved only in audio-visual archives.

My hometown is in a small village in northern Guangdong. It was precisely this unique environment, where "Dialects vary from village to village," that allowed me to speak five dialects from childhood.
But as time goes by, I've noticed dialects quietly fading away: peers converse less in dialect, and most of the younger generation can't speak them at all. I understand this is an inevitable part of history, where countless voices fade into silence over time. But, witnessing the gradual loss of this cultural heritage still fills me with regret.
As a photographer, I felt compelled to leave my own mark on this phenomenon. I chose dialects as my project theme, attempting to translate the auditory into the visual. Using my phone, I documented the present state and future of dialects—from the passing down of dialect theater traditions to the linguistic disconnect between generations. If only one voice could linger in our ears, dialects would fade like ripples dying down or flames growing dim, becoming inscriptions carved into history or ultimately preserved only in audio-visual archives.

We have a little dog named Lucky. He is a playful and naughty pup who grew up enveloped in our affection, and he is also a dog who responds to that love with genuine warmth. It's a bond of love and emotion that transcends age or species.

We have a little dog named Lucky. He is a playful and naughty pup who grew up enveloped in our affection, and he is also a dog who responds to that love with genuine warmth. It's a bond of love and emotion that transcends age or species.

We have a little dog named Lucky. He is a playful and naughty pup who grew up enveloped in our affection, and he is also a dog who responds to that love with genuine warmth. It's a bond of love and emotion that transcends age or species.

We have a little dog named Lucky. He is a playful and naughty pup who grew up enveloped in our affection, and he is also a dog who responds to that love with genuine warmth. It's a bond of love and emotion that transcends age or species.

We have a little dog named Lucky. He is a playful and naughty pup who grew up enveloped in our affection, and he is also a dog who responds to that love with genuine warmth. It's a bond of love and emotion that transcends age or species.

We have a little dog named Lucky. He is a playful and naughty pup who grew up enveloped in our affection, and he is also a dog who responds to that love with genuine warmth. It's a bond of love and emotion that transcends age or species.

We have a little dog named Lucky. He is a playful and naughty pup who grew up enveloped in our affection, and he is also a dog who responds to that love with genuine warmth. It's a bond of love and emotion that transcends age or species.

We have a little dog named Lucky. He is a playful and naughty pup who grew up enveloped in our affection, and he is also a dog who responds to that love with genuine warmth. It's a bond of love and emotion that transcends age or species.

We have a little dog named Lucky. He is a playful and naughty pup who grew up enveloped in our affection, and he is also a dog who responds to that love with genuine warmth. It's a bond of love and emotion that transcends age or species.

Their lives have always been intertwined with countless ports, accompanied by the ever-changing winds and waves. Their skin has felt the humidity of different seas, their fingertips brushed by the warm, salty breeze of the Indian Ocean, their gaze soaked in the molten-gold sunsets of the North Atlantic. The dawns and dusks, the seasons gifted by the world, have been collected one by one, becoming a silent rhythm in their memories.
Within the confined space enclosed by steel bulkheads, a family portrait carefully secured with tape quietly fulfills its mission of protection. Resisting the jolts, dampness, and erratic time zones, it becomes a steadfast island amidst the drifting. Foreign breezes slip through the window, mingling with the undimmed springtime essence preserved on the photo paper—that small frame serves as his most tranquil guide amid the storms of reality.
Each solitary voyage deposits its unique luster; every foreign wind seems tinged with the warmth of home; every distant lighthouse echoes the window light awaiting him. All dawns and dusks traversed, all time zones and seas crossed, point toward the same destination—a myriad journeys, vast and boundless, will ultimately arrive at that embrace of waiting.
Even the longest voyage is a road back home.

Their lives have always been intertwined with countless ports, accompanied by the ever-changing winds and waves. Their skin has felt the humidity of different seas, their fingertips brushed by the warm, salty breeze of the Indian Ocean, their gaze soaked in the molten-gold sunsets of the North Atlantic. The dawns and dusks, the seasons gifted by the world, have been collected one by one, becoming a silent rhythm in their memories.
Within the confined space enclosed by steel bulkheads, a family portrait carefully secured with tape quietly fulfills its mission of protection. Resisting the jolts, dampness, and erratic time zones, it becomes a steadfast island amidst the drifting. Foreign breezes slip through the window, mingling with the undimmed springtime essence preserved on the photo paper—that small frame serves as his most tranquil guide amid the storms of reality.
Each solitary voyage deposits its unique luster; every foreign wind seems tinged with the warmth of home; every distant lighthouse echoes the window light awaiting him. All dawns and dusks traversed, all time zones and seas crossed, point toward the same destination—a myriad journeys, vast and boundless, will ultimately arrive at that embrace of waiting.
Even the longest voyage is a road back home.

Their lives have always been intertwined with countless ports, accompanied by the ever-changing winds and waves. Their skin has felt the humidity of different seas, their fingertips brushed by the warm, salty breeze of the Indian Ocean, their gaze soaked in the molten-gold sunsets of the North Atlantic. The dawns and dusks, the seasons gifted by the world, have been collected one by one, becoming a silent rhythm in their memories.
Within the confined space enclosed by steel bulkheads, a family portrait carefully secured with tape quietly fulfills its mission of protection. Resisting the jolts, dampness, and erratic time zones, it becomes a steadfast island amidst the drifting. Foreign breezes slip through the window, mingling with the undimmed springtime essence preserved on the photo paper—that small frame serves as his most tranquil guide amid the storms of reality.
Each solitary voyage deposits its unique luster; every foreign wind seems tinged with the warmth of home; every distant lighthouse echoes the window light awaiting him. All dawns and dusks traversed, all time zones and seas crossed, point toward the same destination—a myriad journeys, vast and boundless, will ultimately arrive at that embrace of waiting.
Even the longest voyage is a road back home.

Their lives have always been intertwined with countless ports, accompanied by the ever-changing winds and waves. Their skin has felt the humidity of different seas, their fingertips brushed by the warm, salty breeze of the Indian Ocean, their gaze soaked in the molten-gold sunsets of the North Atlantic. The dawns and dusks, the seasons gifted by the world, have been collected one by one, becoming a silent rhythm in their memories.
Within the confined space enclosed by steel bulkheads, a family portrait carefully secured with tape quietly fulfills its mission of protection. Resisting the jolts, dampness, and erratic time zones, it becomes a steadfast island amidst the drifting. Foreign breezes slip through the window, mingling with the undimmed springtime essence preserved on the photo paper—that small frame serves as his most tranquil guide amid the storms of reality.
Each solitary voyage deposits its unique luster; every foreign wind seems tinged with the warmth of home; every distant lighthouse echoes the window light awaiting him. All dawns and dusks traversed, all time zones and seas crossed, point toward the same destination—a myriad journeys, vast and boundless, will ultimately arrive at that embrace of waiting.
Even the longest voyage is a road back home.

Their lives have always been intertwined with countless ports, accompanied by the ever-changing winds and waves. Their skin has felt the humidity of different seas, their fingertips brushed by the warm, salty breeze of the Indian Ocean, their gaze soaked in the molten-gold sunsets of the North Atlantic. The dawns and dusks, the seasons gifted by the world, have been collected one by one, becoming a silent rhythm in their memories.
Within the confined space enclosed by steel bulkheads, a family portrait carefully secured with tape quietly fulfills its mission of protection. Resisting the jolts, dampness, and erratic time zones, it becomes a steadfast island amidst the drifting. Foreign breezes slip through the window, mingling with the undimmed springtime essence preserved on the photo paper—that small frame serves as his most tranquil guide amid the storms of reality.
Each solitary voyage deposits its unique luster; every foreign wind seems tinged with the warmth of home; every distant lighthouse echoes the window light awaiting him. All dawns and dusks traversed, all time zones and seas crossed, point toward the same destination—a myriad journeys, vast and boundless, will ultimately arrive at that embrace of waiting.
Even the longest voyage is a road back home.

Their lives have always been intertwined with countless ports, accompanied by the ever-changing winds and waves. Their skin has felt the humidity of different seas, their fingertips brushed by the warm, salty breeze of the Indian Ocean, their gaze soaked in the molten-gold sunsets of the North Atlantic. The dawns and dusks, the seasons gifted by the world, have been collected one by one, becoming a silent rhythm in their memories.
Within the confined space enclosed by steel bulkheads, a family portrait carefully secured with tape quietly fulfills its mission of protection. Resisting the jolts, dampness, and erratic time zones, it becomes a steadfast island amidst the drifting. Foreign breezes slip through the window, mingling with the undimmed springtime essence preserved on the photo paper—that small frame serves as his most tranquil guide amid the storms of reality.
Each solitary voyage deposits its unique luster; every foreign wind seems tinged with the warmth of home; every distant lighthouse echoes the window light awaiting him. All dawns and dusks traversed, all time zones and seas crossed, point toward the same destination—a myriad journeys, vast and boundless, will ultimately arrive at that embrace of waiting.
Even the longest voyage is a road back home.

Their lives have always been intertwined with countless ports, accompanied by the ever-changing winds and waves. Their skin has felt the humidity of different seas, their fingertips brushed by the warm, salty breeze of the Indian Ocean, their gaze soaked in the molten-gold sunsets of the North Atlantic. The dawns and dusks, the seasons gifted by the world, have been collected one by one, becoming a silent rhythm in their memories.
Within the confined space enclosed by steel bulkheads, a family portrait carefully secured with tape quietly fulfills its mission of protection. Resisting the jolts, dampness, and erratic time zones, it becomes a steadfast island amidst the drifting. Foreign breezes slip through the window, mingling with the undimmed springtime essence preserved on the photo paper—that small frame serves as his most tranquil guide amid the storms of reality.
Each solitary voyage deposits its unique luster; every foreign wind seems tinged with the warmth of home; every distant lighthouse echoes the window light awaiting him. All dawns and dusks traversed, all time zones and seas crossed, point toward the same destination—a myriad journeys, vast and boundless, will ultimately arrive at that embrace of waiting.
Even the longest voyage is a road back home.

Their lives have always been intertwined with countless ports, accompanied by the ever-changing winds and waves. Their skin has felt the humidity of different seas, their fingertips brushed by the warm, salty breeze of the Indian Ocean, their gaze soaked in the molten-gold sunsets of the North Atlantic. The dawns and dusks, the seasons gifted by the world, have been collected one by one, becoming a silent rhythm in their memories.
Within the confined space enclosed by steel bulkheads, a family portrait carefully secured with tape quietly fulfills its mission of protection. Resisting the jolts, dampness, and erratic time zones, it becomes a steadfast island amidst the drifting. Foreign breezes slip through the window, mingling with the undimmed springtime essence preserved on the photo paper—that small frame serves as his most tranquil guide amid the storms of reality.
Each solitary voyage deposits its unique luster; every foreign wind seems tinged with the warmth of home; every distant lighthouse echoes the window light awaiting him. All dawns and dusks traversed, all time zones and seas crossed, point toward the same destination—a myriad journeys, vast and boundless, will ultimately arrive at that embrace of waiting.
Even the longest voyage is a road back home.

Their lives have always been intertwined with countless ports, accompanied by the ever-changing winds and waves. Their skin has felt the humidity of different seas, their fingertips brushed by the warm, salty breeze of the Indian Ocean, their gaze soaked in the molten-gold sunsets of the North Atlantic. The dawns and dusks, the seasons gifted by the world, have been collected one by one, becoming a silent rhythm in their memories.
Within the confined space enclosed by steel bulkheads, a family portrait carefully secured with tape quietly fulfills its mission of protection. Resisting the jolts, dampness, and erratic time zones, it becomes a steadfast island amidst the drifting. Foreign breezes slip through the window, mingling with the undimmed springtime essence preserved on the photo paper—that small frame serves as his most tranquil guide amid the storms of reality.
Each solitary voyage deposits its unique luster; every foreign wind seems tinged with the warmth of home; every distant lighthouse echoes the window light awaiting him. All dawns and dusks traversed, all time zones and seas crossed, point toward the same destination—a myriad journeys, vast and boundless, will ultimately arrive at that embrace of waiting.
Even the longest voyage is a road back home.