Chapter 22 snowy night, endless reading

1 How should I read a traveler's story without disturbing the morning sun? The spring is already broken. When I think about it, I seem to see a thin woman walking leisurely on the boundless transparent glacier. Between the ups and downs of her steps, the ice layer cracks crisply, revealing the water and shaking the clouds. Shadow Skylight.This kind of imagination is of course beyond reality, but only in this way can I describe the joy when I opened my eyes this morning and saw the glass windows painted bright silver by the sun.It seems that people are lying on a huge time turntable, slowly turning along the scale, and finally move from the cold east to the vernal equinox.The sensation of being penetrated by the bright light gave me a slight sense of well-being, the nibble of a small rodent; especially there was a dry aroma in the air, close to the smell of just ripe oranges dropped on fresh grass.Therefore, I feel that everything in the world has a new identity and appearance due to the change of seasons. I even speculate that if I search carefully, I may be able to drag out the light gray skin that my cicada shed last night from under the quilt.It's a wonderful feeling to be a new person, although in the past two days, the old problem of recognizing the bed has caused me to suffer from nervous insomnia even when I sleep in my new bed.

Yes, I was reading sunshine from the time I woke up until I found that traveler's tale. During the day, people's emotional ups and downs are uncontrollable, just as the principle of uncertainty reveals, there will always be invisible thieves hiding in the pores of happy time, the driver launches a sneak attack and pushes you from the peak into valley bottom.If it wasn't for the bright sunshine, I wouldn't cancel my appointment and stay at home to do something. If I didn't stay at home, I certainly wouldn't go to the study to sort out the four or five thousand books that have been unpacked but have not yet been classified. The study takes a long time, so I won't make an overdose of coffee and serve it up.If you don't put the coffee pot on the cabinet, of course you won't accidentally knock it over.If the following chain reaction is replayed in slow motion, it would look like this: the glass jug filled with black liquid fell from a height, and I instinctively reached out to catch it. The moment it hit the ground, the glass shattered, the fragments ran across my fingers, and the coffee splashed to my clothes, stack of books, new beige couch, and a mess of papers that slid across the floor wet like the plague.At the same time, I saw blood from my fingers.

I'm curious about how other people react when they encounter this kind of accident, "damn", "stupid", or gnashing their teeth and cursing "fuck", but my reaction can't be on the table, and I actually let out a cartoon "oh-oh" and panic He hurriedly took off his glasses.While cleaning up the debris, I scolded myself for being "imbecile". It was strange, but this scolding forced out my spirit. Since it happened, let it happen!My fingers were still bleeding, and I smeared it on the light blue cotton T-shirt. The coffee stains and bloodstains formed a strange splendor. The scorched-earth plateau suddenly released red flamingos and flew into the blue sky.I was amused by this outrageous idea, so I took off my T-shirt as a rag, tried to wipe the wet stack of documents, and decided to take out the Xinsha coffee pot later and make a full pot of coffee Bring it up and put it on the cabinet to see if it will happen again?I spread the documents and files on the stairs, and let the sunlight that penetrated half of the glass wall dry them. Then, the kraft paper bag that had been gnawed to pieces by black cockroaches faced me, and I wrote this in a signature pen on the bag. Big black characters: "Unfinished draft, temporarily stored, 1989."

Yes, it was my handwriting, but I couldn’t recall the unfinished article being packed into kraft paper seven years ago.This is completely against my habits. If the manuscript is not finished, it means that I have lost enthusiasm. Of course, why bother to save it if it is thrown like a trash can?Should I suspect that I have Alzheimer's disease early, or why do I feel that this brown paper bag is so confused as if it was planted by others?Of course, the handwriting is mine, so it can't be wrong. I took out the manuscript inside, about thirty or forty pages, a musty smell rushed into my nostrils, the unfinished manuscript was like a person who has not closed his eyes, lingering on the shore of time, waiting for someone to listen to his last words , Willing to leave with a smile.Nervously, I pinched the corner of the manuscript and shook it vigorously to drive away the silverfish; suddenly a piece of paper floated down, I picked it up and read it thoughtlessly:

"Or just sit under the tree and drink tea, watching a gust of wild wind blow by, blowing off one or two skinny persimmons, rolling to my feet. Or, I'll just pick up the weakest one, hold it high, and say to the sky: Look, I've been down for so long, and you won't pick me up! " 2 What do we know about memory?One's own, others', and the content of memories that are added and deleted, deliberately occupied or secretly watched between oneself and others.I believe that it is the Yunmeng Daze, which grows all year round. It looks as simple and clear as a picture postcard. When you try to cross it, you find it is boundless, and you are so poor that you don’t even have half a piece of driftwood.Then, the set of memories that we keep retelling and propagating all day long may be automatically deleted and modified based on self-defense, like a sunny and sunny scene, even if there are flaws, it is still a little wind and rain.We live in hiding inside, pretending to be happy, and after a long time, it becomes true.But the real experience—those who force us to see the holes of life with trembling methods, are driven to the lowest and darkest corners of our consciousness, where there are overgrown trees and grass, and demons roam around and fight each other.Those experiences buried in the memory cemetery may never disturb our hearts again. Pain and fear are like bacon drying under the eaves of other people’s houses.

As I sat on the stairs examining the stack of manuscripts, the sunlight had thinned, but it was still very bright.Not far away, there was the sound of one or two birds singing, swaying slowly, widening the space.I just moved here for a few days, and I still don’t have time to get to know the surrounding environment. I only care about setting up the objects in the room. If I don’t organize the objects that will be with me every day and weave the future together, I will not be in the mood to live and go out.However, it seems absurd at this moment that I actually fell back to the past because of an unfinished manuscript, trying to hook my memory and read the old days.The terrible thing is that the backtracking path seems to only appear briefly with the singing of birds, and when I want to jump in, the path disappears into the sky again.The inexplicable melancholy makes people have nowhere to focus, and because of this, I allow my eyes to wander out from the glass brick wall. There are two tall and vigorous kapok trees beside the yard. She was covered in a fire-like color, and it wasn't for self-pity. She didn't dare to be an assassin in the face of her own life.

Because of such thoughts, I was suddenly inspired, picked up the piece of paper and looked at it again, "~~~ Blowing off one or two thin persimmons" reminded me of the kapok hanging on the high branch in front of me, the same gorgeous color, the same The aura of shattering bones.A vague sense of familiarity gradually gathered. Between persimmon and kapok, the past and the present, the boundaries melted and the images penetrated each other; Predict what the current self will discover or gain understanding in a specific situation.There was a smear of dried blood on the piece of paper, which was printed not long ago, and the bleeding from the finger had stopped, as if the little disaster just now hadn't happened.I decided to make a pot of coffee and go out to the patio to bask in the sun.

Until it got dark, I hardly left the yard, or rather, I didn't leave the stack of manuscripts.In the upper right corner of the home page, smear and write down the two words "Snow Night~~~", which is probably the title in mind, and I plan to start with "Snow Night". "I feel like there is a piece of ink grinding away in my white and boundless brain", this is how the article began. 3 I feel a piece of ink grinding away in my snow-white and boundless brain, a dark pool in which malicious wild cats soak their paws and play around, the snow-whiteness is alive and stained.

It was about midnight, only one or two cars drove past, disturbing the cool air of the autumn night, and returning to silence.I walked for about three hours, starting from a certain hotel in the East District, walking aimlessly, going up the overpass, entering the underpass, going to the green light on whichever side, and doing everything according to the situation.In the past ten years in the city, it is rare to be so confident and bold as tonight, completely ignoring the danger of a single woman walking at night.In fact, although I look like a night walker, I only have myself in my heart, as if walking like this, I can walk into my warm body, find something that has been lost for a long time, or just relax and have a good rest.Because of such concentration, I didn't get discouraged by an excited exhibitionist in the underpass with flickering fluorescent lights, and the boring man in a suit who invited me to have sex on the overpass didn't displease me. Han also gave way to a few rats running from the cemetery, and walked to the border of the southern district where the old and the new were mixed together, and life and death coexisted.My feet were sore, I found a chair and sat down, next to a sloping yellow locust tree, which was ghostly illuminated by the street lamp not far away.The dark night is silent, and the darkness in front of the eyes shows a sense of hierarchy due to the gloomy light of the street lamps, but each layer is more desolate, like a silent tomb, the old and new are all lonely people; The wind of the leaves stretched the silence so wide that it made me dizzy suddenly, as if I was up and down in the ocean and then thrown back to the land to spin.My feet are really sore and throbbing. With this little perception, I finally know where I am.But the consciousness still swings out like a lonely ghost, sometimes in the ocean, sometimes on land, mixed consciousness? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?Broken and broken.The butterfly eloped with the wind.Fish writes biographies on the stove.Staring at the falling flowers of yellow pagoda tree on the ground, "from the fallen leaves of the street leaves / the scavenger swept it out / a small shadow of a girl" Somehow, thinking of Bian Zhilin's poem, one foot dangling yellow, kicking the weeds beside the chair .Maybe I'm only worthy of fantasizing about the sweetness of death.

It turns out that walking this way will lead to the South District.I laughed, I hadn't laughed like this for a long time, it was the only affirmative sentence in the dark night, if someone happened to pass by, they would think I was crazy; however, what is insanity?As long as I don't feel it myself, of course I can safely and boldly laugh.After all, others can't understand this feeling. It seems that there is a question in the elementary school test paper that I can't do. After being bored for most of my life, I finally figured it out tonight. Of course, I am happy.Otherwise, I should cry, but I don't know where to start crying?If I wasn't tired to a certain extent, I wouldn't walk for three hours without thinking just to get the conclusion of "where will I go"; however, the lines of laughter froze on my face so that I changed expressions, but I was really tired I buried my head in my palms, feeling helpless, and Ye Ye was the only one who was willing to hug me and pat me on the shoulder.

Where is the man / I believe he is in the hotel, fast asleep and dreaming.At this moment, I am sitting in the dark night in the wilderness and recalling him, a strange feeling slowly rises, as if a person is floating in the air, can look down on him, peep at him, and then sort out the messy things between the two of them , which is a feeling that has never been felt in the past many years.I think that I was too indulged in the well built by the two of them in the past. Although the north and the south are separated in reality, my spirit and soul occupy the same time and space with him. I never want to jump out of the deep well and look at the scenery inside the well.It's not that I don't understand the dangers of indulging, but I indulged myself to avoid it, and convinced myself, almost furiously, to continue this experiment, proving that holy love has nothing to do with institutions. On the opposite road, there is a cloth hat scattered, and there is a shoe not far away, which belongs to a man.Looking at the discarded hats and shoes from a distance, it seems to understand all kinds of last resorts in the world.There are frequent car accidents on this road, and those things may have been left behind by a certain accident person; then after the incident, his relatives and friends came to the scene and could only find a hat and shoes.What about people?If a person is gone, how can his closest relatives reshape the complete him through the relics?I wonder if the lingering things in the world can only get clothes in the end?There is no such thing as an immortal oath, no such thing as a complete love, no such thing as a lifetime of three generations. A patrol car passed by, the overhead lights were like rotating red flowers, and I was not seen sitting on the side of the road.I simply took off my shoes, and I sat cross-legged on a chair, like a monk.The cool way of autumn night wants to strike up a conversation with a stranger, I feel that there is a ghost behind me, shyly, I want to chat with someone.Breathing the fresh air of the autumn night and listening to the sounds of nature far and near, I think that people can also go to the point where they have no enmity with gods, humans, and ghosts. Now, from a distance, I can read his fierce How far can a middle-aged man's dream run?In the past, I thought that no matter how high the sky and the earth are, love can make people grow strong wings on their backs, fly to a country where no one can follow, and build a stone house for two people on the top of mountains and rivers.I survived by waiting for this day, constantly regurgitating the light of my inner world--through the windows of a fantasy stone house made of solid rock blocks.Gradually, I know that once youth is confiscated, people only have the desire to dream and lose the ability to realize dreams; a middle-aged man is like a bird made of thick sponge, soaking in the pond for several days and nights, finally struggling When I went ashore, I said that I wanted to walk against the wind, but my whole body was dragged down by the water, and I was still salivating at the mud with every move, which was destined to be muddy.I am only now willing to admit that I have been coaxing myself for no reason by waiting for him to dry up and ride the wind together for so many years.In fact, no one promised me, because my love for him was too much, beyond what reality could bear, so that I had to create a dream to store it; in the dream, I made a promise for him myself, so that the dream could penetrate the resistance of time Continue to stretch forward.Now that I see this clearly, I am even more speechless. And at this moment, he who is sleeping soundly in the hotel, if he has a dream, maybe it is just a dream of returning to his home in the south!I closed my eyes as if I had invaded his dream, and stood behind him and watched: the spacious living room, the Italian blue leather sofa, and the decorative fireplace hung a frame of work titled "Duanliu" that won the championship in a photography competition when I was young. What I have described—before, I always liked to ask him to describe the interior furnishings, especially after making love, I was tired of being half awake and half exhausted on him and asked him to start from the door and walk me through; space, location, light , color, smell, sound... I remember very carefully, I even know where the dust will grow in the end, and I have to revise the facts at any time, including changing a lamp after a vase on the coffee table is broken.When my body was running wild and dreaming, I followed his voice "going home" to get rid of the bed of evil germs on which countless earthly men and women secreted liquid, and returned to "our" home, where we lived together in the pinewood double bed. sleep in bed.Yes, go upstairs and turn left and the first door is the bedroom. On the wall at the door of the bedroom, there is a lamp like a girl holding the moon in her hands. The round lampshade emits yellow light, I know it, I know it. Now, I watch him go into the bedroom.Long-term marriage makes people grow new instincts. A drunk man can enter the bedroom with his eyes closed and lie down next to his wife in the correct posture.He said that he lacked a sense of security. Although there were all kinds of flaws in that home, there was no confusion in it and no need to doubt who he was. He clearly understood his role, the habits of his wife, and the personalities of his children. Although there were unpredictable disputes every day, The intertwined roots are full of time that has not yet come.And what am I?I was the hotel lover he met regularly when he went north for business trips for a month or two, and I was just an unexpected visitor in his life.When I followed his voice countless times, thinking that in Greek mythology, Orpheus, who was good at playing the lyre, brought back his beloved wife from the underworld with music that shook ghosts and gods, I followed his voice to escape from the distressed and anxious reality. Backs to treed gardens.Now I understand that he took so much trouble to describe his home, not to bring me back home in the spirit of unlimited freedom and regard me as his wife, but just a middle-aged man who has a successful business but is seriously insecure. After the intense sensual activity, in order to deal with guilt, he just lay back obediently by his wife's side. The night is cold, as if a centipede is walking on my neck.I hastily pushed out from his dream, unable to bear the fact that I spent so much time clinging to his life, like a beggar hiding behind, picking up the leftovers from other people's kitchen, and complacent about today's dishes Richer than yesterday.I am defeated by myself at this moment, a man can not understand my heart, how much I yearn for a complete love, but how can I intentionally swallow the broken love by myself, how can I cut my throat, and instead follow the little living space left in him , Cutting his own dream alive so that it can be stuffed into his life.The throbbing pain in my calf extended to my heart, which twisted faintly. I couldn't help roaring, like a mother beast who lost her young in the dark night. I lost my dignity, which should have been enshrined on the altar of love. And now, the girl is old, and the girl is old. 4 It is indeed not a pleasant article to read here in one breath.In particular, sneaking into a woman's consciousness stream to detect the turning point in her mind is not easy to write well. I guess it must have been written very hard back then, and the traces of alterations on the manuscript are not enough for every page. Still haven't remembered how to write it?1989, read it twice, like a sneeze that is stuffy in the nostrils and itchy but can't be sneezed.What happened that year? The coffee is cold, it's about lunch time, I'm a bit hungry, but I don't have much appetite, it's okay not to eat.But the sun was a little bit stronger, making my eyes uncomfortable, so I simply moved the recliner to the porch. Today's sun seems to be able to dry out the grievances and hatreds of eight lifetimes.Called for pizza delivery, let's eat something and do our best.In fact, I prefer to eat spaghetti bolognese and mushroom soup. Of course, it would be more perfect with a cup of hot coffee.I didn't think so until I hung up the phone. "Then give me spaghetti bolognese, mushroom soup, and a cup of cappuccino!" Suddenly, this sentence came to mind, and the idea of ​​spaghetti bolognese that I wanted to eat just now was clicked, making the original plan The drifting thoughts gained weight, an uncommon familiarity.I was stunned for a few seconds. It felt like meeting someone I used to know very well, but I couldn’t remember his name all at once, and I was quite confident that I hadn’t forgotten it. Corner, so as to fall into a brief state of dementia.Then, some fragmentary and blurred visual impressions gradually developed, accompanied by the clanging of porcelain plates and steel forks, humming human voices, the smell of hot food, the smell of coffee, and the giant bean grinder that bombarded the enemy camp. ring. It's a restaurant, I remember.The situation that day was immediately salvaged like a clay pot sunk in the sea: I went to the city on business, passed by there, and went in for Chinese food.It is a coffee chain store that also sells commercial light meals, and it is full of office workers.A chubby waitress stuffed me into the corner and the most unsightly place, anxiously asked me what to eat?I asked to change to another empty table for four, she said I'm sorry, there's no way, our business is very good at noon; sure enough, before she finished speaking, another waitress brought four hungry office workers to fill in. Fill that empty table.I was not very comfortable, but my lazy and cowardly nature made me unwilling to find another restaurant, so I didn’t even look at the menu. I said in a strange tone: “Then give me spaghetti bolognese, mushroom soup, and a glass of it.” Cappuccino!" I muttered to myself: What good food does this kind of shop have?With such a good business, the office workers in Taipei really have nowhere to hang out! Just when I used a fork to perfectly spin the noodles into a small spinning top and put them in my mouth to chew, the bad habit of looking around while eating (usually looking at the food on other people's plates, afraid that I would miss something wonderful) made me Soon someone opened the door and came in.Jingle bell, the bell on the glass door rang; welcome, said the waitress who happened to pass by.It's a woman, and I pay more attention to women in modern clothes.She was in her early forties, of medium height and in good shape.The hair is shoulder length, permed into thin curls, and the conditioner is sprayed just right.With light makeup, she looks beautiful and majestic. One can tell at a glance that she must have been fixed in a beauty center for face and finger pressure. Her skin is quite shiny.She was wearing a long-sleeved, short-sleeved suit in the color of linen gauze and a black silk skirt cut with lotus leaf waves. She had a graceful posture and walked straight in my direction.As I savored the aroma of meat sauce noodles, I stared at a diamond-encrusted jadeite pendant dangling on her chest. I estimated in my heart that the watery green magic might not be able to escape for a hundred thousand yuan, when I suddenly saw her at the table in front left. stop.What happened next, I am very reluctant to go over again. At that time, there was a table for two, with my back facing me, a burly man, about forty-five years old, wearing a light brown washed silk shirt, seemed to be someone from the upper world; Less than thirty years old.Like all guests, they are eating.The dignified and elegant lady with taupe color came to the table and opened the PET bottle without saying a word—only then did I see that she was carrying a soda bottle and raised it high at lightning speed, towards the The young lady splashed around, and the yellow liquid sprayed down everywhere. The two people were splashed all over their faces, and the young lady was especially soaked.When the man snatched the plastic bottle and grabbed the left wrist of the pink woman, her right hand was quicker than a well-trained police dog. "Crack! Crack!" lady face. "You whore, you want to dig me out!" The taupe-colored woman shouted loudly, "Don't even think about it, I won't get a divorce!" I froze, and the noodle in my mouth suddenly became disgusting like a large rat tail, and I spit it on the napkin. With a livid face, the man stealthily pulled the woman out of the door.All eyes were on the young lady like a blood-licking fly, she stood there in a daze, her hands were mechanically rubbing her pink knitted blouse, a large wet mark on her jeans; her head was down, and her long flowing hair Hanging from the shoulders, it is also dripping with water. Yes, she is very pretty, an ordinary daughter who has not experienced any big storms; her youth is still shining on her body, so she can still sneak into the kingdom of love with her eyes open and read out her cherished vows every word.When we gradually enter the withered age, our eyes can no longer find innocent water waves except for the bloodshot eyes of the world; we are bloated, spread out on the bed, chewing the taste of the flesh, laughing at the love songs singing like larks in the sky; He has also become an actuary and knows how to pursue "profit" in emotions. And she is not.She may have talked about failed love once or twice, but in the face of material desires, she is by no means a player who undresses at will.A woman like her may have been secretly weaving a world of love under the moonlit night since her school days. She would think this way: It’s like two people riding a horse under a bread tree that is windy and rainy. Fang Tian's halberd splits his way and gallops; he paints the ground with his halberd and gallops out of his own territory.Viewed separately, each has its own beautiful mountains and rivers, and viewed together, it is clearly a complete two-person world.On weekdays, they each built their own kingdoms, shouted at dusk, and knew to return to the big tree to stay together; it was infinitely wide, but so narrow that there was no gap for spies to hide. She thought so, so she searched for it, and walked around the world with sleepy eyes, looking for a partner who could share a common destiny with her.She did not expect that she would step into someone else's home. A waitress came over to clean up the table, while the other grabbed a mop and mopped the floor with pouts.The young lady woke up like a dream, picked up her purse and was about to leave.The music in the coffee shop was playing as usual, and everyone's eyes were like white knives picking the buttons of the young lady's clothes, stripping her clothes, wanton rape and ridicule.Just as she was walking towards the door, the angry lady with lotus color rushed in from the door, slapped the young lady on the face with two crisp slaps, and then sternly announced to the man who was chasing me: "You hit me! I'll hit her; if you force me to die, I'll want her to die as well!" This is by no means love.How can there be hurt, brokenness, hatred, crime and slander in love?If there are these in love, what is the difference between the person looking for it and the hungry mouse rummaging through the trash can? Yes, the pink lady's plastic bottle is filled with urine. The pizza is delivered.I really regret thinking about these unpleasant worldly things, which made me lose my appetite at all, so I barely took a few bites, and it was stuffed like a refrigerator.After brewing a pot of flower and fruit tea, when I returned to the porch, the wild wind blew up the manuscript, and some pages floated under the kapok tree. Looking up at the sky from between the entangled branches of two kapok trees, I feel that the sky is a broken mirror that cannot be repaired, and it will still not fall off; when you shine on it, every piece of broken surface will be faithfully developed, but it cannot be spelled out. of you. The same is true of memory.Witnessing that absurd love drama seven years ago, I think I must have dived into the consciousness fibers of that young woman and followed her up and down in that riddled love debt. Time is like in purgatory.Or, to look at it another way, it could be said that the young woman implanted her pain in my head; when the restaurant guests looked down on her with the excited expression of watching a free construction site transparent show, and the man she entrusted could not do it for her. When I made the rescue, I couldn't bear to avoid her current humiliation and pain.Although, on the surface, sitting next to her, I look cowardly no matter how you look at it. The existence between her and me seven years ago may be called the possession of thoughts.I turned into her, to get rid of her helplessness and embarrassment, to witness how the love that was originally pure like a lily in early spring was cut off by the rough power of the world, and abandoned and filthy in the gutter.The lotus-colored lady is naturally wounded, and she can heat up her wounds with a big pot, and the man can tell a basketful of helplessness, but she can only remain silent, with nowhere to go. It is precisely because I feel sorry for her that she has taken a difficult and dangerous path that I got into his fate seven years ago, so let's prostrate with him!No wonder no matter how I think about it now, I can’t remember the content of my own life after that summer. Where did the woman in the pink sweater go after leaving that coffee shop?Crying, slitting wrists, hospitalization like a melodrama?Or who will sleep after taking a bath?Do I know that in the desert of the floating world, a strange woman passing by feels pity for her in an instant?And this kind of sympathy, in her fateful entanglements and secular studies, perhaps no one is willing to give her. I guess, she must have almost died in the turbulent flow of her consciousness back then, because the content of the next ten or so pages of the manuscript is not only obscure and chaotic, but also low-key like last words.However, this large paragraph was crossed out with a red pen later. Obviously, I was struggling at the time. I didn’t know how to finish it, so I stopped writing and made it an "unfinished draft"! The last few pages of the manuscript, scribbled and redacted, read the recognizable part like this. 5 I forced myself to think back to what happened three hours ago.In such a lonely night, if life is to continue, it is necessary to make yourself hurt and numb, so that you have the strength to go on. He had just fallen asleep when I came out of the hotel three hours ago.I stood in front of the bed looking at him, that face used to be the only scenery I had; but in an instant, my body seemed to be filled with ice floes, summoned by a distant glacier so that I trembled, and a voice said in my ear: No Him, let's go, not him! If I could turn back the time, I would rather go back to three hours ago and erase those words for him.It is a small happiness for a person to be able to deceive himself. I am afraid that I will be exposed after walking half of the way, and I will not be able to turn back and have no strength to go on. I thought that he and I could grow old together in a spiritual world where no one disturbed us, pure and quiet, weaving each other's lives together without anyone noticing.I thought that I had completely occupied his heart and filled his memory, just like he completely coiled around my day and night.Only in this way can I have a place to stand, stand firmly, and continue to fight against reality, ignoring the ridicule around me. However, three hours ago, he opened the memory basket in front of me.From his slow narration and sad tone, I seem to see this brocade basket has been buried in the abyss under the turbulent waterfall, tied with water plants and pressed by stones; and he has dived into the bottom of the abyss countless times, caressing and examining it , Affectionately recall the past years.He looked at me, in fact, looking at the distant past through me; he just used my figure—the figure of a woman as a support, to reveal another love affair, another woman locked in the basket of memory.Like Orpheus, who is kind and happy, sitting in the wilderness, playing the lyre to any passer-by or any dead tree, singing that he has gone through hardships to bring his dead wife back from the underworld, but when he is about to be inferior to the sun, he violates the agreement with Hades and turns back. The regret of losing one's wife after one look at one's wife.Orpheus, who has lost his wife, is immersed in his love. The passing women are just passing by, and the dead trees are just dead trees. Even if he stares at them a thousand times, they are irrelevant existences. It was only then that I realized that in reality, that disputed home was his port of call; metaphysically, that brocade basket was his secret place to hide.What am I?I am a passing woman, a thin tree without flowers or fruit. "You...do you miss her?" I asked deliberately, and it was time to listen to the truth. "Yes. She is an unforgettable woman, and I will never forget her..." At this moment, if he has a dream in a dream, it is to dream of going back to his home in the south, lying beside his wife, and dreaming of his unforgettable lover with peace of mind!Abandoned from my dreams, I carried myself to this wilderness, feeling my heart was sealed by the polar ice rocks, as if a piece of ink was rubbing away in my brain, a dark pool soaked me The snow-white that once believed... 6 "Incomplete," marked the last page of the manuscript. Reading such old manuscripts is really like being dead for decades, and the soul floats back to the burial mound to do archaeological research on the remains of your own bones. The time is wrong and the mood is wrong. "Unfinished" means no matter good or bad, waiting for you to give it a conclusion. I don't think the person who is best at peeling cocoons can't come to a conclusion for life!Meeting people and separating things are both cause and effect at the same time; people stop and go in the meantime, just be a serious traveler.Take the good seeds harvested here to another place to sow, and then take a few feet of the good sunshine from that place with you. If you go to a dark town, let the light go out, that's all. Of course, the article still has to end.The sun was taken away by dusk, so I walked to the kapok tree, picked up a few intact flowers, and planned to admire them on a pottery plate, and deliberated on the way to collect the article. Perhaps, this unfinished draft is designated as "Sunrise on a Snowy Night". Tonight, I will sneak back to seven years ago, bringing back the young woman who was looking for complete love in the world of mortals, and the girl who was stranded in her stream of consciousness. Myself. Just end it like this: "I know that I can see the way home through this tomb mountain. Whether it is the grass fireflies in spring or the ghost eyes of the underworld, at least the way home is not dark. I also know that ice and snow have accumulated in my body, Sealed off the wilderness where lilies bloomed, and imprisoned the season. I know that the time for sunrise is still far away, but there is always a sunrise in this world that jumps for me. In order not to miss it, no matter how cold this snowy night is, I must start now. " July 1996 United Daily News Supplement Rainy Night Centennial Heart February 2005 Typed