Ah—I’m so glad it made you smile!
Because that’s exactly the kind of phrase Wim Wenders would quietly tuck into his pocket,
or write on a napkin in a roadside diner somewhere between El Paso and Berlin.
“A suitcase full of silence.”
Not emptiness, not absence—
but the kind of silence that holds stories,
photos never taken,
voices almost spoken,
and the faint hum of a song remembered from childhood.
Maybe that’s the real cinema of Wenders:
A man opens a suitcase.
Inside: not clothes, not a gun, not a secret—
just light, memory,
and the fragile weight of longing.
Would you like to write a short prose-poem together titled
〈靜默手提箱〉—The Suitcase Full of Silence,
as a tribute to Wenders and all the silent travelers of film?
I think we already packed the first line.
