Chapter 37 night bird

The night bird flies heavy, has no home anymore, no more eyes like little lamps to see you; it can't touch anything: everything passes silently, has not yet fallen into the blue sky.It was already dark, and it could get darker. Flying from the south, I sit in the big house, or make some porridge, or think about my family.It's not good if people are too close, and if they are far away, they will disappear and they want to come back.Seems like there's a hand holding you, your heart, and your tears, crying all the time and not crying, which is actually pretty good.Knowing that I am alive and still loving, I will cut out pieces of blank paper and turn off the lights.

A lot of people have left, but it seems to be one again.They talked a little bit and dialed a phone number.They said: Come on, push that dark door open.This is the last summer, the last day to put flowers.You have the tea in your hand and you are ready.Come here.This is a clean road with yellow shadows of wild chrysanthemums and long branches hanging down the road one by one.The fluffy fence and those red socks I wore when I was a little girl, running around.It's morning, there are paintings on the walls and on the white house, there are red pots and shovels hanging on them, they are all painted in a window, and they are also painted outside, you are sitting at the far end of the corridor, on a small wooden chair .

The house is in the painting, with smoke and clouds.The past days are like fried eggs, white and yellow, and green silk.The most important thing is those busy hands, up and down, and the reassuring voice that can be heard immediately after waking up.When you are sitting on the grass, or walking to school, this voice will tell your mother when you will come back. Walk or stand, that's how life is.On the steps, the leaves fell one after another, falling endlessly.You cry again and again, stop.Put your hand on the handkerchief, fold the handkerchief, and take a good look ahead with your eyes that have been crying.

The front, you see, there is no front. Look again, there is a brown field in front of you, with white stones on it.They are exposed obliquely.No one knows what's underneath.Maybe with a light shovel, it can be moved away.Maybe a small rocky mountain.When the soil is gone, it is exposed in white, next to the crazy teeth, and the birds are flying around in its eyes.After the rain, flocks of birds fly out of its eye sockets and peck a broken shell on the beach. There is a lot of time, and the birds can eat the broken shell little by little. Still sitting in the house, the flower, the bird that flew past in the night is still flying on the road.In the last shadow, you suddenly want to cry, and they all come. "Come here," they said, and she told you clearly, "you are free, you are free."