One morning I woke up to see the fog drifting away, sunlight pouring into the room. In that moment, I slipped into a state of mind that no longer felt part of the human world. Perhaps science fiction, at its core, is an attitude of stepping out of the earthly realm.

This song is the first time I’ve created something with a true sci-fi sensibility. I’ve always felt it would make a fitting theme for a science-fiction film. It’s also the first time I’ve let my mother tongue merge with my musical language. The struggle of writing in my native language seems to be fading—along with the doubts I had in my youth about its authenticity.

In any case, this is a very important song for me.

“THIRTEEN THEMES FOR A PLAY”, the original soundtrack collection for Xu Haofeng’s stage drama The Flying Man, is Lumi Liu’s second solo album. Apart from the final mastering, all composition, performance, recording, and mixing were done by Lumi herself. Earlier this year, she described her album A Day without Time as “a purposeless and spontaneous creation,” whereas this soundtrack—clear in its narrative function—marks a leap from private expression to a public, dramaturgical dialogue.

In this collaboration, Lumi stands to director Xu Haofeng as his aloof, finely restrained temperament stands to the martial-arts mythos of The Flying Man: her music becomes an invisible yet fully present character on stage. Across thirteen pieces corresponding to thirteen dramatic themes, she covers almost every narrative element of the play. Working within a minimalist framework, Lumi often uses shifting rhythmic percussion as a central motif, sketching scenes, story arcs, and even physical gestures with the precision of line drawings. Modern, diverse electronic textures wrap around pure melodic lines, extending the tension and atmosphere of the drama into the entire theater space—and into each viewer’s mind and chest.

Some tracks feel ethereal or blurred, others cool or warm, still others dangerous or charged with fatal intent. The subtle emotional currents within the characters, as well as the turbulence of the era in which the story unfolds, are all perceptible through her sonic language. Though this is her first attempt at a theatrical soundtrack, Lumi’s strong stylistic signature is unmistakable; yet what distinguishes this work from the equally singular A Day without Time is her profound reading of the play’s text. The integration of her personal sensibilities sets her apart from industrial soundtrack teams. From here, one might even anticipate hearing her next major work resonate within theaters again.

An aimless, spontaneous act of creation. This is the gift I give myself for turning forty— a project I kept postponing again and again. As someone who rarely has a clear purpose when doing things, I’ve made music for many years without ever wanting to release a solo album. It’s not that I didn’t make music; I just never thought about who should hear it.

Five years ago, I made a wish for myself: to finish a solo record before I turned forty. I didn’t think about the details at the time— I simply wanted to complete the music. I didn’t expect that along the way I would end up doing even the mixing on my own. The time, money, and sheer volume of knowledge I had to absorb all far exceeded anything I had imagined.

I never set any goals, never decided when it should be done, what style it should take, or which instruments I would use. Don’t know the software? Learn it. Can’t play piano? Learn. Can’t play drums? Learn it on the spot. Don’t know mixing or production? Learn that too. Whatever needed learning, I learned— simply according to whichever problem I encountered next.

But when I finished it last spring, I felt an immense happiness. The process taught me so much. I decided to use a photo I took myself for the album cover, so it could become a fully complete version of “me.”

No gift from anyone can compare to the one you give yourself, or the promise you keep to yourself.

A Day without Time— a day when time is absent. It belongs to a world of one, undisturbed (cats allowed).

— Lumi Liu