When I saw that Dostoevsky was going to be exiled to Siberia to do hard labor, I was very excited and said, "Wow, aren't I surrounded by people with a lot of stories!" Wow, then I can't write any great works! Seeing Rousseau being locked up on a quiet and beautiful island, studying flowers and plants every day, strolling alone in reverie, and thinking about it—I thought it might be nice to be locked up, and I could ask a lot about the past, and I could know a lot of stories with a sense of life. No matter how bad it is, like Rousseau, a person spends a leisurely life with flowers and plants, and such a leisurely time alone is enough to make himself peaceful.

But today, when I was talking to a friend of mine about the Hokkien songs he played on his mobile phone, he introduced Chi Zhiqiang, the songwriter who "held a nest head in his hand, and there was not a drop of oil in the dish", and his experience of writing a lot of songs during that time when he was imprisoned for hooliganism, as well as what he had seen when he went to prison to do some things:

"There are a lot of walls inside, layer upon layer of that and something."

- "Is the power grid?" ”

"Yes, layers of power grids and high walls. Then go in and it's a place the size of our elementary, middle school, and school basketball courts. ”

"That scene is really bleak." "They're all wearing such thick shackles."

- I didn't say anything. I declare that my prison literature project is bankrupt.

Today's Xiaolai: Between the end of the river in front of our house and the setting sun, there is a tall, lonely modern building. I stood behind a clump of green trees on the side of the meandering creek and could see the halo on the top of the building.

Do I write a drop of beauty? Ha ha.

"Quietly Waiting for the Dawn" layers of power grids and high fences are being hit by hand, please wait a moment,

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