Chapter 74 Section 1

In the morning I was in the Wanshou Temple, under the golden glazed tiles.Looking from the window, it seems to be a world of sulfur, with the light of sulfur shining everywhere, and there is a smell of sulfur.I went out many times to look for factories related to sulfur. If I found it, I would write a letter to the city government to expose this matter, because sulfur not only pollutes the environment, but is also a dangerous substance that cannot be placed near the Wanshou Temple.As a result, neither the factory nor the sulfur was found, and the smell became less after leaving the gate of the temple.The truth is: we are polluting the environment, we are the danger.People in the noodle shop also complained that the smell we gave off was affecting their business.So I can't write this letter - because people should not expose themselves.

It has been a week since I came out of the hospital.I have good news: my memory is recovering, and new information pops into my head every moment.But there's also a lot of bad news, and that's because the memories aren't all that popular with me.Take this one, for example: I am not a historian.I am forty-eight years old, and I am still a research intern without an intermediate title.The academic committee discussed my promotion ten times.I didn't pass the first three times, and I seemed to be a little anxious.By the fourth time I was no longer in a hurry.The fifth time I was rated, I gave it up again, and gave it to someone older than me.The leader said: This is what you want to let go, don't blame us; I just smiled and nodded.After the fifth time, I can always be evaluated. I disagree with the promotion, saying that my level is not enough.The tenth time happened before I crashed, and I still disagreed with the promotion, and stated repeatedly that I was going to be promoted to a research assistant at the age of one hundred and die the following year.Anyone who dares to urge me to be promoted as soon as possible is urging me to die early.But for some reason, they confiscated my work permit and sent it back with a new job title.No matter what others say, I don’t admit that I have been promoted to a mid-level professional title—that’s it, I was hit by a car, which was completely caused by the forced promotion of my leader—since I don’t have a professional title, I’m not a historian Home.But I'm not nobody: I'm mostly a novelist.

Under the incense table, I found a pile of dusty literary publications, all of which were works signed by my name.I have also published several collections of novels.Today, I also received a remittance slip, and the postscript stated that it was the manuscript fee.There was also a request letter, inviting me to write a short story and participate in an essay competition, but very politely advised me to use less "explicit" descriptions--I think this refers to sexual descriptions.I don't remember any of these things.But since you are a novelist, then write well. I rewrote Xue Song's story, which is what it looks like now.At noon, the woman in white who claimed to be my wife read it from beginning to end and put it down noncommittally.This disappoints me.I always feel that after losing my memory, my talent has improved by leaps and bounds, which can be compared from the manuscripts written before and after.Now I'm looking forward to someone else to verify.I asked her: how is it?She asked back: how about what?It frustrates me—she can't even understand me; or rather, I can't even speak myself.Of the two statements, the latter is more fluent, but I prefer the former.I said: How about the manuscript this time?She replied flatly: You always do this, over and over again.After speaking, he walked out of the room.I should have been more depressed.but I do not have.The way she walks is so beautiful, I can't get enough of her.