Tatjana, if you go into another city. The walls were covered with armor, and people rose from their sleep. The moon is worn around the waist as a token of entry and exit from the human realm.

Will you remember me, in a gesture that borders on compassion, to put me in a cold light? Snoop around in ways you don't know. It's like your love, which expands around in another oblique stretch.

Just like your life, if you bow your back, you can't get up. I touch the softness of your back, the blue bird around your knees, how do you say forgetting.

Forgetting is not remembering anymore, or when I remember you, I can't remember things anymore. Goodbye will not be alarmed, and there will be no miss if you don't see it.

Later, in my days in Victoria Harbour, Hong Kong, I always thought of you. I don't want to sleep, I don't want to, there is always a gentle knot in the plain. The moss is dense, the redundant cloth is overgrown, and the heart can't be put down, and I can't lift it. Just like the street to go shopping in the early morning, I just feel that the isms and schools discussed by young people in Wan Chai are far away.

It must not have been my wound.

But if it weren't my wound, the school girl spell, I woke up in the middle of the night and I lit the lamp. A spell with a red lizard tattoo on his shoulder, he met during a skydive a week ago. She wore red that day, red hair, rushed in first. Like a flame falling in an instant, she smiled and said, if you know, a thousandth of silence, as violent as me.

She lived in the basement with a group of young people of the same school, and did not sleep at night. Hold the school book and prepare a march against the financial monopoly, politics. I said Curses, you are so stupid, what is the good study of politics. When I was young, I was just like you, bold and bright. But truth and falsehood go hand in hand.

How you just want to be good. I don't dare to live silently alone as long as it is good, I hold the pain and grievances. What else.

Yesterday's parade was full of people like fish. She walked in the front with a large banner, and the night was bright, and frame by frame was sprinkled on the corners of her solemn mouth. I saw how funny, angry, there were striking drivers and builders in the streets. They are so confused, why they are walking here, they only know to resist. But what if you resist, don't you have to continue to drive and honk your horn, and continue to live a noisy and noisy life. There are women selling masks on the side of the street, occasionally grabbing one of the people in the procession, raising their voices, and buying half the price in groups.

I said, "Look, you see, something must have been left behind, and the time has not yet reached the exact place."

Assimilation, minority obedience, seemingly fair, clever means.

How do you live smarter than they do?

That's not my wound.

Tatjana, you leave. But you didn't say anything, just the usual thing, hugging, parting kisses, closing the door. The moment you closed the door, I felt something in my heart, and I always felt that this was too soft. If I knew it was the last one, wouldn't it be different? Will you look at me more, will you say you love you again? If I knew it was the last time, would I hold you, would I ever listen to you read a poem again?

But if you know that it is the last time, you will still say goodbye warmly and wave your hand.

This is the most important part of life, how the body expresses feelings. Suppressed doubts and uneasiness, groping for a long way. Wonder if tomorrow will come as scheduled, even if you understand, even if you understand. You can also live in peace, swallow all the suddenness of fate quietly.

Still nothing, still don't understand a lot of things. Just occasionally thinking that you're gone. Tatjana.

Later, I received your postcard: If you wait for me, I will come back, but you must wait for me with all your heart.

I pushed the window shut, and the thick night poured in. The house was so dark, I went downstairs. No turning, no looking back. At the end of the night, there was a blue glow, and the headlights swayed on the bridge, eclipse and crumple. The clattering pace, every time I landed, it was like the first time I was frightened and painful.

At the carnival, I met a man who wore lipstick. He pretended to be Snow White, and a piece of his chest was torn off, revealing his solid chest. Everyone else laughed, but he didn't, he didn't look at anything, what's funny. His eyes were stiffly open, his steps scraggling, and his mouth slightly open.

I approached and he said, "The world is so quiet, but I'm so tired."

Spell never talked about being tired, and that day I was lying on the bed in the bedroom, and she was in the bathroom. The ceiling hung with dim white lights, and I turned my head to look at the pitted glass of the bathroom, and the long figure was reflected in the glass door like a knife mark. She stood under the shower, ready to fly, like a firebird.

In the haze, the bathroom seemed to have opened a crack, and the water mixed with countless red lizards seeped out and spread all over the ground. Approach, and into my body. Suddenly I woke up, and the spell fell on me, and she laughed and said, "Do you think you can fool yourself by living with that little illusion and self-defense?"

You can't fool yourself, politics and faith are where you belong, said the fiery woman.

Not an exhortation, but a command. Firmly, as in announcing a statute, your destination.

I was terrified and terrified. I thought that the fiery implant could suspend the tedious and lazy repetition. I thought that as long as I didn't love, I wouldn't be alarmed, and I wouldn't be afraid. I used to think that helplessness can only come from love and dependence. When I walked in, and was filled. I was overflowing and quiet. Across the bed, behind the woman in the painting, there is a milky lake.

You came back, and you still didn't say anything.

Just carrying a piece of luggage and wanting to knock on my door, I opened the door to see you, the light in my eyes was resolute, tragic. It doesn't matter if you are sad or happy, you are still so neat and soo, life is to walk around in a hurry and come back.

My flight lieutenant Asda, after he was wounded, someone visited him. He turned his face away, and was gone. Hesitating, he opened the door in the raining daylight of midsummer, dragged his injured leg, and retreated step by step into the shadow of the door. Every step is so slow, calm, and rooted.

How to explain the burden of life.

This pain needs to be expressed and explained in every small step. Therefore he did not speak, turned his face away, and retreated to himself.

Asda hasn't spoken since, and one day I was talking on the phone in my office. He pushed open my door and hung his head, the gray light of the room on his face. I looked up and saw him, and I was shocked, what a thin man. Like a piece of paper, dark behind it. I walked over to him, and he suddenly fell straight on my shoulder.

There is no weight, it is something I can shoulder.

His body, full of self-esteem and humiliation, fell on my shoulder. The tip of my nose brushed against my ear, softer than I had imagined.

Tatjana began to become more orthodox, just in the kitchen when she had nothing to do, cooking a table of dishes. I came back from work with a headache. She smiled grimly and said, "Eat quickly, eat quickly."

I picked up my chopsticks, chewed on a piece of meat, and felt that something was wrong. Looking up at her, she was sitting squarely across from me, a knife in her hand, slowly cutting her hair. My heart is so blocked, I open my mouth, I want to speak. Suddenly, a strong shield blow sank into his chest, and Asda's injured leg was on the plate. Looking up, he was standing behind Tatjana with a solemn expression.

My mind began to fall into illusion.

Flight Lieutenant Asda with a dagger stuck in his back. With blood, and all the burden of life, fell on my shoulders.

I can afford it, so small. It's like the gain of life.

At that time, I was looking at the scenery in Victoria Harbour, thinking about the topic of youth, enthusiasm, and life. Thinking about the fiery age and the high civilization, how to weigh the two. Then I got a call about her.

Red Woman Spell's house with snow-white walls. Only in the center of the room stood a mahogany bookcase, the shadow was so long, gray-black, that spread out of the door. There are no books of the school of thought in my imagination, nothing. It was all empty, and I suddenly felt a chill in my heart.

At this point, I understood that whether it is red or not, clan beliefs. It's just an empty core of life, a cover-up.

Abandonment, containment, no difference. Those who are engaged have forsaken. Superficial, deep, varied. It's all empty.

The gains of life are so small.

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