There is a great terror between life and death

I have a nice pair of hands.

This is the hands that have been praised since childhood to now.

The characteristics of the hand are round, not big, the five fingers are slender, and when they reach the base of the fingers, they quickly become fat and strong, and there is too much flesh, resulting in four small pits on the back of my finger joints that look good.

Since I was born in 74 years of material scarcity, the people of the village, regardless of gender, old and young, as long as they saw me as an infant, would consciously or unconsciously bite on my hand, and the light in their eyes scared me, so I cried loudly, but unfortunately, the more I cried, the more they bitten.

After being gnawed by countless people, I don't want to ask for them.

As I grew up, there were fewer people willing to gnaw on my hands, mainly because my hands were dirty a lot of the time, and only my mom, dad, and sisters were willing to take a bite of my hands once in a while.

Later, these hands that have been praised by many people as must be blessed are no one cares.

It wasn't until my wife appeared in my life that things changed to a certain extent, she liked to bite my hand, as long as she was angry, she would bite when she was upset, and she would bite me when my son wetted the bed...... It hurts to the bone marrow.

When my son started school, even she abandoned my hands, and so far, these hands have no other use than to make money with codewords.

Today, my hand was carefully examined by a good-looking girl in her hand, she looked very seriously, turned over and over, and rubbed her white fingers on the back of my hand at every turn, the movements were gentle and delicate......

Then she took a needle with a long tube and plunged it into the back of my hand...... If it doesn't work once, she stabs it twice, three times......

Looking at the green tendons on the beautiful little girl's forehead, I gently comforted her: "My hands are fat and my blood vessels are thin, take your time......"

The little girl, comforted by me, seemed to feel humiliated, turned around and ran away.

A moment later, an older woman with a blue bar on her hat came in, and she took my hand like a pig's trotter, like a pig's trotter, and slapped it twice on the back of her hand, and then she struck it in one stitch.

I looked at the transparent tube with a hint of red, it should be my blood, the older woman flicked the wheel on the tube, my blood was mixed with the transparent liquid, and once again entered my veins, cool, a little comfortable.

Because I was a drinking friend with the director, the ward I lived in was a suite, in good condition, and surrounded by the rich fragrance of flowers - like a corpse waiting to be mourned.

There are many friends, and there are many people who mourn, and everyone has a strong sense of concern on their faces, which is good, but the gifts they send are not friendly at all.

Maybe they thought that I was a writer who wrote books and should have a little style, so they decisively abandoned my favorite gifts such as canned yellow peaches, monkey biscuits, eight-treasure porridge, and even common gifts such as ginseng, deer antler velvet, and maca, and they replaced all the things I expected with expensive flowers.

The main color of the bouquet is composed of white lilies that give off a strong fragrance.

This led me to lie lonely and staring at the ceiling among the flowers covered in white and occasionally a few other colors.

The ceiling of the hospital is like heaven, white and dazzling, and the ring-shaped incandescent lamp exudes a soft white light, like the halo on the head of an angel, so holy that people dare not look at it.

I don't think a person like me who is about to be completely poisoned is qualified to go to heaven, and besides, I hate white.

Just as I was pondering the difference between heaven and hell, the door of the ward was pushed open, and then a peculiar, simple head peculiarly peculiar, with a strong smile on his face full of ravines, came in, a peasant poet.

What I used to discuss the most was - the thighs of white radish, the watery one, why can't you keep you in such a good place, he thinks that the main focus of local literature is a simple and direct, only in this way can the suppressed emotions in the hearts of farmers be expressed, and they should be written and sung nakedly.

The farmer's enthusiasm was unstoppable, knowing that I had been a diabetic for five years, he sent me peaches growing on their tree, the peaches were red and bright, and they were very heartfelt at first sight, all of which were high-end goods that had received full sunlight on the treetops.

He also told me that one bite of a pack of honey, one more bite can sweeten my teeth.

Until he pulled out a large handful of shocking red roses from the cardboard box containing peaches...... It could also be the bouquet of the moon season, and I learned that he came to ask me about the inclusion of his work in the collection I edited.

God, for his kind of work that dares to write female genitalia in poetry without the slightest obscurity, I have a few dares to compile this thing into a collection, and his work can be sung during the Flower Festival duet, and it will never be possible to publish it in a book.

He was very disappointed when he left, and when he left, he glanced at the peaches he had sent, probably feeling panicked.

I also think that he is very lost, that box of peaches, it is estimated that it can bring him more than 100 yuan of harvest, and give it to me, a diabetic patient, a big loss.

Fortunately, the red flame-like roses or moon seasons he sent still brought me some comfort.

It wasn't until the little girl who came to pull out the needle asked me why I was picking the flowers in the hospital that I woke up from a dream and looked out the window, where the flowers were in full swing......

Lying in the senior ward is like lying in a lavishly decorated mourning hall, I feel that I am an ordinary person, since I am an ordinary person, I should enjoy the happiness and happiness of ordinary people, but also enjoy the pain and sorrow of ordinary people, so I decisively quit this mourning hall and moved into an ordinary ward composed of four beds.

I just went in and I regretted it.

The old man in the next bed had been holding his urine all night, but he had not been released because of prostate problems, and he was groaning painfully with his hands and feet.

After the doctor came to see him, he decisively took the intubation catheterization.

I don't know why the nurses pulled the curtain over to cover the view of the patient next door, but the direction I was in was unobstructed, giving me the best observation position.

Then, I saw an unforgettable scene in my life, five or six little nurses, taking off the old man's pants, pulling out the old man's male features like a turnip, and then poking a transparent tube into it, and the old man was bouncing on the hospital bed like a fish that had just been thrown ashore.

Seeing this scene, I couldn't help but reach out and touch myself, fortunately, it's still there, it's because of the damage to the object, it's more than half smaller than usual, and the other half is still there, that is, the yin has shrunk into the body.

The nurses suddenly became nervous, and the older nurses pulled out the catheter, and then, for the first time, I saw the scene of male features spurting blood outward, and before the blood fell on the hospital bed, it was pinched by a nurse...... She pinched it.

Later, the ward was full of doctors and nurses, and after a brief discussion, they said that the old man's prostate was bleeding, and the blood clot blocked the tube to cause him to be unable to urinate, and he needed to go to the operating room to continue the intubation with the help of the instrument......

After they sent the old man away, my bladder was also very uncomfortable, and I went to the toilet to release it, but there was nothing, and at that moment, I suddenly saw the scene of me lying in the hospital bed, being treated like an animal by the doctors.

Then I went back to the ward, which I called the mourning hall, and lay quietly on the bed covered with flowers, looking forward to the next visitor, whether peasant poet or urban wandering poet, as long as they pushed the door in, we were good friends who talked about everything.