It's sauna day, and I move around the boxes in the corner with the DTR35, which are full of discarded equipment, but I like to collect these useless things, they have no value and make me obsessed.

The air roared hot. The thing in front of me begins to shake because of the uneven medium, and it loses its purity. My sweat trickled down my eyelashes, dripping down, and my eyes took on the same bitter liquid.

"Your brain is leaking," he said to me with a smile, and I saw white teeth, not like the real ones, but fine and densely packed with small, pointed teeth, like some kind of dexterous and cunning rodent. I don't know why I think he's a wonderful subject of study for JR774 - I've seen how he scrapes the scales of the three-meter-long arapaima so meticulously, digging all the way to the roots, digging out of the veins, one by one, like a hard and beautiful gem.

"It's not leaking, it's melting." I retorted to him. He didn't speak again. I've imagined the only thing that is more reliable sizzling and evaporating like liquid nitrogen from the hole, revealing the abode of the soul.

"Actually, the human nose will leak excess brain fluid, those transparent things." JR774 said. He asked me if I had seen whales, and I said, no, only the coastline.

At that time, it was the greatest pleasure for my mentor to take me to sea.

He was good at this, the sailboat stopped on the seashore like a huge stranded whalebone, we cheered in the droplets, and saw the vast sea in the crystal splash. It's an escape. Sometimes I excitedly say, "There! So we went farther and farther from the shore. Looking back now, it's really like a dream of the Golden Age, there is no real beauty, the details are illusory, but the whole is basically real. Reality seems to me to be like an abstract work, although it has no appearance, just a strange pattern with a high entropy value, but it is good enough. Hidden mysteries are subtle.

He was the first to touch me, without any insulators.

"Welcome to Research." He didn't lift his head, he couldn't see what it was in his hand, and he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, smiling. I remember when I was a kid other adults saying I should smile more, but I didn't think I had any unhappy expressions. My mood is based on eye contact, and the joy that ripples in my eyes like a wave. I'm not a melancholy child. When DTR35 said this, it seemed like research was a noun, but it gave me a shocking and ingenious feeling. He was the first to ask me what I was researching, and I didn't tell him.

"Everyone who comes here will study something, it can't be idle, the survival here depends on nothing else, it is your brain in a brain of dozens of square centimeters." He looked at me. The gaze gradually changes, but it is not obvious, like a little game of light and shadow. I knew he understood, and at that moment his image in my mind changed, and I think he was the same.

"I see," he said in a loud voice, but in my ear, "you are the one who graduated there, and you are the one who has a nervous breakdown." ”

No one dared to say this so blatantly, everyone knew what happened to that institute.

DTR35 took me on a tour of his lab, which was more like an old warehouse, full of amorphous fragments and powdery plaster.

He's not a fanatic of weapons, he's just a musician.

"Weapons were studied in the past because people needed war. Weapons are now being studied for unnecessary defensive deterrence and more bitter suicide. People like to hit their temples to shut up their minds. Many people commit suicide just because their brains are too messy to control, so they can only shoot to warn the thing in their consciousness to be quiet, just like to warn people who are making trouble on the streets. This method is really the most useful, and nothing will be made in the future. "I love them so much that the moment I shoot the gun, I can hear the rotation of those gears, the spiral shuttle, the reciprocating, as good as a thousand keys opening a thousand locks at once." But almost everyone can't hear it, do you know why? He wiped the barrel of the gun with care.

I shook my head.

Because, "he pointed the gun at my temple and I felt the caliber of it, and the coolness of the metal." "When someone shoots, the muzzle of the gun is not close enough to the ear canal, and only the tiny music that is placed in the ear can be heard. The best music can only be heard once," he got onto the bolt, and I could clearly hear the sound of the mechanism tightening. I wish he had killed me. But he removed the perfect instrument.

"Forget everything before you have time to remember."

In those years, my mentor and I looked at the starry sky on the sea, our universe, where all the formulas worked. He said, let's go there, I know he's always right, because there is no shore in sight, the white sea is like a shroud, the bottom of the sea is turbulent, and unknown dangers are approaching. He told me the names of those stars, and each star was our tears.

Some stars are destroyed before they reach a populated place, just as the echo of some words does not reach the ears of others, and the speaker dies. Years later, the faint light is captured by life, and the pain of their past is displayed in front of the living, but no one knows if they still exist, which is the sorrow of every abandoned star.

The planet I saw gave birth to the first thing more humble than itself tens of millions of years ago – unconscious life. The flowers may have wrapped the earth like a shroud. Peace will forget lonely corners, but war will not spare any battlefield. It visited the planet, and for a few weeks everything ceased to exist, including children and countless pale spores that had not had time to become children. It will take tens of millions of years to heal the wounds here, and tens of millions of years to give birth to the next life, but it itself will not survive that time. Dead flowers grew from the heart of the corpse, and the hollows corroded by the acid were like dead eyes, staring at the no-starlight zenith in a daze. The monsoon with the smell of toadstools blows in a particular direction, making a low whimper through the hollow, like who is playing a clarinet harmonica in the distance. Rust dust pollen generally drifts away, and the only difference between them is that pollen transmits life, and rust dust seeds die, and is more savage and vigorous than any seed grows.

Now they're the samples I've locked up in the safe. I know what else is in the safe.

A note, and five empty shots**.