There was an earthquake in the middle of last night and the whole house shook and it felt like a big cat jumping over my spring bed. I thought it was the upstairs neighbor Bundy, and I thought that the quality of this house is really not good.

When it comes to the final week, it's an exam, I have to move, and I have some documents to do, which is more irritable. In contrast, writing essays is indeed a cute annoyance. In the moment, this kind of trouble makes me feel alive.

Every once in a while, I feel that what I write is not interesting. I want to talk to people, but I feel like it's a waste of other people's attention. So I write some complaints about writing, always rotating all kinds of trumpet hair. I'm embarrassed to let so many people see it, and I don't want no one to see it.

But writing alone, it provides me with so little nourishment that I have to poke my head out and shout from time to time. It's hard to get my happiness in words. "This sentence is beautifully written!" --It's so hard for me to feel comfortable because of this. I wanted a complex situation, a lot of strong feelings, and I was able to show that emotion. None of them can be created in a vacuum. It's not very satisfying to write it out. For example, alas, I still think that Hansong didn't write the first 30,000 words. In my preset plot, I wanted a massacre, corpses blocking the streets, and I wanted Zhang Mian to cut off Han Zhi's arm with his own hands, I wanted to create such a bloody scene. But the plot doesn't seem to have enough tension when it gets to that. Some external influence forcibly flattened it, making it more gentle when it appeared. In the end, I almost euphemistically implied death and injury. It makes me feel like I have a fish in my throat every time I think about it. Is the logic not enough to support it? Or my cowardice? Am I not angry enough? Until then, I didn't realize that the plot we ended up writing was a balance in our minds formed by some invisible force. I was afraid that if I couldn't write this story well, it would be because I was too weak. It's strange that the lives of people without names are all the more precious. I don't dare to write about the massacre. If I can't do it this time, can I do it next?

Since last year, I have gained a lot of new understanding of human relationships. Man lives in the world, the main thing is loneliness. On this basis, various connections arise, and these connections are largely random. The realization of this ethereal yet solid connection affected me so deeply that it almost shook my plot design. The role of Lu Linchuan can be regarded as my endorsement in depression. He had a completely different name and background, but at one point, he suddenly made my voice heard, and the whole story that he had been hanging in the air was instantly the worst. At that moment, there was a clear flaw in him, and I gave him ambition, fear, a calmness that I tried to embellish, and two thousand nights of sleepless resentment. He became an unfortunate character because he accidentally said a word from me. It is well known that the author hates himself.

On the bright side, all the main characters have a part of me, or rather, it's the prerogative of the main characters, as if I'm pinning my imagination of my own tragic traits on them. When I decide to love a character, I first think about where they don't fit into social life, and what habits they grow up that make them deeply frustrated in communication. And a figure who looks like a fish in water? I pondered what they had worn out of their nature to get these, and I thought they had a bitterness that was hard to swallow in the middle of the night when no one was around. I guess this is my inescapable self, those roles that match my cognition and life, I don't classify as "my own person".

And this self and the desire to talk about it, it seems to be the lump that I can't swallow in the long night, the part of my nature that has been frustrated in communication for a long time. They sometimes seem to have a very clear cause and effect, but more often than not, they complement each other. Story, this is my Möbius ring of glory and pain, the Ouroboros that swells in my heart day and night.

Growth means destroying part and keeping part. What is retained, this is where the disagreement of the characters lies. I watched them in action, as if I saw a different me walking among different choices. This metaphor may sound arrogant, but it can be humbling.

It was raining and it was great. Yesterday I finally bought milk and pumpkin, and I accidentally bought two huge celery, which are a meter long.