I've seen the notes that my mentor brings with him every time he goes to sea.

Inspect the cables

Inspect the hull

Bring enough supplies

Sail on September 4th

Don't die

I don't know when, he left the last one behind. "People often forget that they will die one day." The words of a blind man always make me want to laugh. I still have the urge to laugh maniacally. I think there's a reason for that. We have to forget, because no one has a way to keep this thought in their heads. I can't tolerate it, I can't tolerate my own demise, I can't tolerate myself becoming a holographic image of the surface of a black hole, it's all over. Will the world disappear momentarily after the vacuum decays, or is there something else? I think of the principle of anthropy.

When the sea breeze blows, the storm also comes quietly, just like many accidents in life.

The accident started after I continued that damn experiment.

The cap rolled farther and farther on the floor, and I looked at the second instrument that had just arrived, hoping it would bring success. Maybe I should call someone at this time, but the first thing that came to my mind was not the DTR35, but the JR774. He's better and more normal than me. I imagined a German accent ringing elegantly over there, his long smoky blue hair draped over his shoulders like seaweed, his gloves stained with the warm blood of all kinds of creatures.

I threw the bottle into the darkness, and it swirled, flickered, shattered. Glass, asphalt, and a huge quartz body that was unbelievably pure under the pale light. Everything arises from nothingness and returns to the original point, the Möbius belt. I think of my mentor. My consciousness began to slowly dissolve, and I lost contact with my body.

That's a dream I sometimes have.

Sunlight shone in through the windows, and the wind outside the house blew up the fallen leaves of the rose garden, piling up beside the neighbor's stone wall. He was too immersed in the unknown, and never stayed on mundane topics. The dividing line between reality and fantasy is constantly changing, and his mind can never be sounder again, but his intense and unrealistic feelings make me trust him.

I remember that room, that turquoise color like JR774's bio lab. I have very little memory of that day, as if it hadn't happened, and it's amazing. But I remember when he turned on the light, those photons hit me, and then countless years poured out into sentences, and many times life turned into a waterfall of words, slow but unstoppable screams, screams that never really stopped. I should have remembered, but I don't know why I couldn't see anything from that time.

I was supposed to leave on my own, but I hesitated when I saw the blind man on the side of the road, collar cocked and waiting for a taxi. I really want to be like a normal person, helping someone to satisfy my own selfish desires, but in fact, the purpose is not to help at all, but to get satisfaction.

"Are you still waiting for a taxi?"

"I'm waiting for someone who can take me back." The corners of his mouth are like the arcs of a wave function.

We didn't talk all the way, just that he would tell me how to walk at the street corner, like a blind man showing the way to another blind man. He was a small investment in the institute, and he just needed a set of acoustic software, and they wanted his ears. My heart is heavy. If I hadn't made it through the probationary period, I would have been ashamed, overwhelmed, and with no way out. I can't be in a mental hospital, wielding a marker and writing down those magical symbols.

"Sometimes the world is weird, and when you're blind, people think you're deaf. He may be invisible when he is blind," his smile was sly, and for a moment I felt his image change, and the golden fluid poured down with a slight, bee-like buzzing sound.

"There are people who believe in their own delusions." DTR35 opened the bottle, and the bitter taste overflowed our lungs.

I don't know what the blind man means, maybe nothing, I'm too suspicious. But it still makes me uneasy. It's like a storm brewing in the depths of a calm sea, but it's all done by butterflies flapping their wings.

When I got to his rental room, he invited me for a cup of tea, which I declined. He stroked my cheek, the cold touch was not real. I realized that he was feeling my facial features, but maybe it was just caressing and making me uncomfortable.

"I can smell the alcohol on you."

"No," I regret not being a girl who likes to sprinkle perfume, "it's just experimental methanol." ”

"I can smell it, and others will smell it." He warned me, "I don't know why, I always feel like you're not recovering as well as you look like." ”

I'm not safe enough. The sphere has the opacity, white granular mist characteristic of crystals. There is an increasingly clear form, where light shines in from different angles and the figure becomes more symmetrical. This is the geometry of the higher dimensions, and I got the inspiration from the Metatron cube. In fact, it is just an illusion of a quartz body crack, and if you deflect the angle slightly, the crack will be broken, and you can't see any mystery.

"Awesome," JR774 said appreciatively, looking at the 200-pound quartz ball, "but does it work, or rather, how?" "It depends on your definition of operation."

"Just use your definition."

The answer is no. Although it can't work, it can do a lot of things, help us, and even the universe, do things that it doesn't know about.

"The universe doesn't know itself, but we know a part of it, and that's our advantage over the universe." The Mentor stood on the tower and looked down at the instruments below, the brass pendulum slowly coming and turning, and being pulled back into the darkness, leaving a long echo.

The day tore through the bandages of time that had wrapped around me, and I found that the world was still in the middle of two new wounds. When we were wounded, we covered our wounds with bandages, thinking that no one could see them, but in fact, these healing bandages proved that there were wounds here. The body is also a bandage that grows on its own, wrapping around the injured heart, but it also has gaps that allow the outside world to infect us, and no one can not be infected, and everyone carries germs just because everyone is not immune. In this disease-ridden world, no one can do it without killing people, no one can be a real person, and the doctor is the character I hate the most, since we are composed of blood and nerves, then we are born to feel pain, not because of pain I know that I exist, it is because I exist that I have pain. Pain is truly the only certain personal possession of each person, and no one can snatch it, but we are eager to throw it away. I use the pain as **, I keep hurting, if it suddenly goes away, I will lose consciousness in pain. So why stop us from dying? Doctors will only treat diseases, not lives, and life is not a disease. Others need to make a bigger cut next to the wound to heal you, and the tears of sympathy are also salt, and they still hurt when sprinkled on the wound. The hospital is more like a bank, lent out at the time and returned when due. Delay the date of your death, leaving the root of the disease for you to give it oil and water from time to time. Márquez said that people don't die when they deserve to die, they die when they can. The right thing has to exist in the right form, and if you can die, why not implement it. But death is not really liberation, because when you die, the elements that make you up will be reconstituted into new matter, even if there is no life, even if there is no life in the mind of another thinking being, even if it appears in the mind of another thinking being for a moment and then forgotten forever, it is unbearable for me. The most terrible thing is that if the elements that make me are no longer composed of anything, I dissolve in the universe, everything is mine, always so. If it appears, it cannot be completely erased, and existence is especially uncomfortable.