Chapter 3 Part 1 This is how we once learned to love the fish in the dragon's room

Part 1 This is how we once learned to love the fish in the dragon's room (1) fish in dragon's room i am fish fish in dragon's room Actually you never saw my body In fact it is as beautiful as the soul ——"The Fish in the Dragon's Room" Why sing in winter? As winter approaches, I finally have a band of my own.You know, in Beijing, everyone has a band, and most of them are punk.So, having a band is not a big deal.Anyway, my patient wait was not in vain, I had a guitar, a drum, a bass, and another rhythm guitar which I played myself - the only non-acoustic instrument in the band, due to my inability , its sound will always be mercilessly swallowed by the noise of electroacoustics.

In the afternoon, I will ride for two hours, passing through several colleges and overpasses. The road is getting more and more sideways, and the bridge is getting narrower and narrower. I will arrive at a place called Balizhuang on the edge of the third ring road. There is a rented basement. We rehearse with out-of-town businessmen, migrant workers, and prostitutes.At night, I have to ride my bike back alone, attend classes at school, and occasionally go to a computer company to mess around.Like all proletarians, I am self-reliant, but not proud of it.I always felt genuinely weak when passing through the city's subway stations, and on weekends I often ingested large amounts of bread until I was about to vomit, in order to obtain both material and spiritual satisfaction.It's the same principle that a flirtatious tabloid reporter finds comfort in his female colleague's huge breasts.

When I ran against the current on the main road of the school, I knew that this was far from the erosive life I imagined.This winter, I am working hard to read old books. Haruki Murakami, Duras, Marquez and Eileen Chang, all the colorful and desolate stories, all secretly conspire with the mood of a desperate petty bourgeoisie.I also want to write Fengyue novels.This time, it should not be so blunt and gloomy, it should be warm and erotic-a scholar-bureaucrat during the Wei, Jin, Southern and Northern Dynasties, a southern Liao woman, a real estate reporter, and a female doctor who saved the earth. It can be vulgar, and anything becomes unbelievably vulgar in my hands.This year I finally discovered that I have no writing talent, a drained imagination, poor vocabulary, and I get stuck when it comes to the male protagonist having sex with different women.I don't know if the physical difference is like the difference between an orange and an apple, or between a southern orange and a northern orange.Almost all the bachelors in this city have a huge double bed and dozens of condoms, but they all refuse to answer my questions, I don't know why.So I'm stuck everywhere.

I had to sing. Sing non-stop. i am a murderer i am the one who was killed i am the murderer's wife i am its accomplice In fact, communication is almost impossible.I have always been timid and hesitant when communicating my intentions.We're stuck on this song.I am ashamed to mention the original attempt, which may have been aimless, capricious and futile.At first, it was a gloomy humming, talking to itself... Then it was fully opened with a snap, and the noise poured out, nervousness, fear... killing people, and then the loud and high-pitched suona of folk funerals, A festive, then a tender ditty, soothing the dead... I gesticulate in vain.

We looked at each other. What was the funeral like? I used to listen to it early in the morning.In a remote small county.Someone died, he was a rich man, and played for three days and three nights.very happy.It is a very happy thing to die.Sometimes, the Chinese view of life and death is very strange.However, Zhuangzi's Gupan Erge has been lost. Indigenous, enthusiastic, funeral.beautiful and cheerful.Such a winter. "Seventh chords," Bass said.But it has nothing to do with chords. I played with the bass. He didn't know what he said, I said you are fucking, he said you are fucking.I dragged my guitar and jumped up, and he hit me on the head.

I began to cry, very loudly.Tears fell to the ground.I didn't expect the tears to be so huge, so big that I was full of curiosity. In the end, I raised my head and smiled sweetly: What did you hit me for, I'm not your wife. The drummer is the youngest and the best in business, so he is pampered by us.He quickly fell into another love after falling out of love.I helped him buy elegant and beautiful stationery, and we made suggestions for his first love letter together, and conducted a rigorous psychological analysis of the seventeen-year-old heroine.A basement woman likes to come running over, touching the guitarist and screaming fuss.

In fact, it is no longer the season of love. E-mail always reads: 0 new emails.The blue dress of a girl in summer, the short-lived kiss in the subway station, the transparent sunlight on the bus, the residual scent of shampoo in the lover's hair.It is always autumn that I understand that happiness is a utopia forever.I never had time to plan for happiness, including cooking, laundry, shopping, and making love.In the early morning, I walked through the desolate street like a migrant worker. The name of that street was Xingfu Avenue, and I was panicked because I had a ghost about happiness.

Occasionally, on my way back from rehearsal, I'd pass by a church member's house.I don't know what religion he believes in, and Christ seems to me as remote and vague as Allah.He has Kurosawa, Bergman, Almodovar and countless CDs, and he can live in a world of colorful sounds and colors.The porridge was happily cooking in the pot.He sat across from me and silently handed over a small book of proverbs.Article 38, he said. The thirty-eighth article is the same warning from the Lord to us not to indulge in desires. I thought, why doesn't he get up and invite me to sleep with him?The room is so warm, the bed is so clean, and I am so lonely, so in need of comfort, I will definitely not refuse.

However, he just sat quietly across from me.Depravity also requires capital.There has to be a bit of beauty, a full bosom, and a little cheap perfume.And I could only sing with a deadpan voice, with no expression on my face. Part 1 This is how we once learned to love the fish in the dragon's room (2) No one sees the better life you speak of, I say. Freshman year, I wanted to marry a pancake spreader. In my sophomore year, I wanted to marry a guy who repaired bicycles. Now, I just wish I had chocolate every weekend. You see, I'm not the type to expect a lot. When defending myself, I know that I am insatiable and insatiable.My only religion is chocolate.In the brightly lit supermarket, I was often moved to tears by these overly rich substances.I made all the mistakes: greed, anger, ignorance, but never repented.

Before I left, I left him a piece of cheap chocolate. Colleagues from the company are eating across from me.I rarely see him because I seldom go to work.There were only two of us on the big round table with our heads buried in our meals.Suddenly he said, I miss my girlfriend's body very much. I said, you can go to her. I can't find her, he said. Why?I absent-mindedly devoured a rib. Because she died. I laughed sharply, don't do this, it's very funny. We went to take the subway together, passed the bustling Liulichang, the lights were just on, the street was roaring with popular songs, and the host's sweet voice.

Please sing me a song, he said, we used to cry and we used to laugh together... I never sang.The subway was crowded, people were reading newspapers, people were staring at my hat. Arriving at the station, I said goodbye and got off.Did not look back. Do not grieve for others. You have to stand up to play the piano and stand up to sing. I said why stand? Because you are acting. Then why is Cobain sitting? That's Unplugged. Why can't I sit and sing if it's not Unplugged? That's the ballad. What happened to ballads? You can't everyone stand and you sit alone, right? Why doesn't the drummer stand? Unless you sit and pee, I'll sing standing up. I just don't want to be on stage and have people watching me.I don't want to act, I just want to curl up and sing. Actually I don't think I'm into rock and roll. On the last day of 1998, I was alone at the Busy Bee.There are many bands on the stage, it is chaotic and lively.I stood there, scared and alone.I don't know anyone.I don't want to be like them either. I got up at four in the morning to make a phone call.The voice on the other end of the phone was old and tired: Hello, please speak. I suddenly raised my voice and sang a cheerful nursery rhyme: I'm a painter and I'm good at painting Oops, my little nose has changed