Forrest Gump's mom told him that life is like a box of chocolates, and you never know what flavor will be next to you. Pen? Interesting? Pavilion wWw. ｂiquge。 ｉｎfo

There's more to this world than the movies, and you never know if it's a chocolate or a piece of that's coming out of a chocolate box.

It's the same as what the poet or thief called Lan Tingzi said, it's all due to chance.

One day two years later, I went to Geng Hao's studio in Songzhuang to participate in his private exhibition, and met this Lanting brother, who still looked down, there was no clean place from top to bottom, and vegetables could be grown at the root of the ears and behind the neck.

He stared at me and didn't react, I stared at him and didn't react, and when we all reacted, he immediately grabbed the door and ran wildly. But he was malnourished and exhausted, and he didn't run far before he lay on the wall and gasped for breath.

I grabbed him, and before I could speak, he knelt down with a "poof", saying that it was because his mother was dying, waiting for medical bills in the hospital, and there was nothing he could do.

said that the remorse has been bothering him all the time, he can't sleep at night, he always has nightmares, he dreamed that he was dragged out of the bed and beaten wildly, and he had palpitations after waking up.

I don't think you ****** bed, where did you get the bed, you are really dreaming.

He said that he thought about repaying us, but he couldn't eat, wear, and couldn't come up with the money, and finally saw his mother lying in the township health center with a bony body, and died.

He also said that if he told half a lie, there would be no place to die, and if I did not forgive him, he would not get up and kneel until he died.

Looking at his pious, funny, and humble face, I thought that he was a poet, such a noble profession, and forgave him. But I said, you have to give me back the out-of-print "Dream of Red Mansions". He said yes.

He took me to his quarters, a dilapidated house in the village, unable to shelter the wind or rain, next to the public toilet, where I often heard the comfortable moans of the laxative people and the popping sound of the squirting out, not to mention the fresh and hot smell that came to the face, which made people feel refreshed.

He said that he was satisfied with having a place to live, and he usually worked in the village to earn some money to make ends meet, and his small life was quite nourishing.

He said that Beijing is so big, there is always a place to live, and he wants to realize his dream.

He rushed to publishing houses and various literati gatherings with his poetry collections, but he was poured cold water.

The best reply is that your poem is too elegant, and in the worst case, the person who has printed it at his expense throws it on the ground, and the A4 paper is like a butterfly flying around, shattered in the wind.

I took "Dream of Red Mansions" and quietly put 200 yuan under his pillow.

During this time, we did not have much contact, had courtesy greetings, and occasionally met for dinner.

Every time he swears to treat him, but the speed at which he pays for it is ****** slower than the slow motion in the movie, and he can't get it out of his hands in his trouser pocket for hundreds of millions of years.

I know he doesn't have any money, but I'll give him dignity -- to put it bluntly -- and tell him to ask for it next time.

He is a person who is too real, it really makes people feel illusory, destined to live in his own world for the rest of his life, and the cruel reality is coming to him, and he can't bear this weight.

For a long time, we didn't hear from him, and during that time, we were so focused on the work of the publishing house that we didn't think much about it.

One night he suddenly appeared at my bedside, expressionless, without saying a word. is still unkempt, but his eyes are much calmer.

When I woke up in the morning and recalled the dreams of that night, I felt very strange.

The next day I went to his village and asked for a story.

There is a down-and-out poet who lives in this village, and he often reads poetry in the house at night, full of emotion, as if he has practiced the sound of a thousand miles in a martial arts novel.

One night, he came home with a few bottles of liquor, and after that night, the sound of reciting poetry did not come out. I haven't seen him for many days.

The landlord opened his window and saw a man hanging there gently swayed by the wind, the body had been dried, quiet and warm, as he had been alive.

Many years later, I still can't forget this poet named Lan Tingzi, I will think of many theme words such as ideals and sentiments, and I will also think of Kong Yiji and Fan Jin.

There are so many people like this in Beijing, living like rats in the dark folds of the city, and the prosperity on the ground is like Mount Tai pressing on them, and their dignity is crushed into powder.

They don't need the sympathy of charity, and in every age, there are always small gaps for our eyes to spot them. They may be small, but they are not humble.

To this day, I still regard his death as murder, and the murderer may have been you and me by accident.

In the future, we can really stick to our ideals like the poet named Lan Tingzi, or we will be quickly forged by the furnace of society and lose our edges and directions, join the army of North Drifters to hide ourselves, and occasionally silently **** scars in the middle of the night, playing with the passion of youth.

There is a poem in Lan Tingzi's book of poems called "Pilgrimage": I have been in hell for too long, and I can no longer find the direction of heaven.

I can relate to that utter despair, just as Sisyphus never-ending moves that fucking stone, and life goes on day by day, and no amount of ideals and ambitions will be wasted.

Our life, the poem is missing! We are like a group of children walking on the edge of hell and heaven, ignorant of the world, and any wind of desire can blow us over and lose our course.