It's a storm. - I can't. I can't see.

When the tweets of the recruitment are written, they are routinely transmitted, and I am in trouble again (it is said here that "also" is because the first time the tweets are self-inflicted in front of the camera). I've become more aware over the years that I'm actually a bad social person. When I first went to college, most of my fellow students were QQ players, some of whom stood by everyone, and, as a new hand who had just been free to network, faced with a sudden rush to quickly occupy the highlands, I opened the door to communication with the outside world. Because of my vanity, my humbleness and my inability to be satisfied with my vanity, I rarely give a circle of friends and hardly look at others, nor speak in groups or respond to others. Before graduating from high school, he laughed, "I don't know if you're dead or alive". This isolation of the living dead continues to this day, to the point where I am stretched whenever I need to shake the ground.

So I thought that a woman in the family who worked in art knew more people in Beijing than I did, and I asked her to forward it to me. She is not a good child in the traditional language and has so far not reaped any success in a secular sense. Six years ago, when I graduated from college, I went to her when I tried to run away from home in a state of frustration over finding work and in a state of conflict at home. I told her how my parents didn't understand and didn't support me, and she smiled and said to me that she had never heard a compliment from her mother since she was a child interested in drawings, and that she had been stuck with them for most of her life. Sometimes it's ironic: you see how much money someone's painting is selling, and you don't know what you're up to; sometimes you question: I see you've been drawing for years, and you've never made a name for yourself; you're always saying no: don't play games. She said that she had a friend who wanted to go to the Central Beauty College seven times before she finally did so, congratulated her for expressing her admiration and did not think that she would have given up without the encouragement and strength of her mother as usual. After all this, she's like a sad little kid and she's crying. Last summer I saw her again, in a furry room she rented, and she told me with an excited look on the wall, that she had received the appreciation and guidance of a professional famous teacher, who told her not to be in a hurry to sink again, and that she was confident: "I've been waiting for 40 or 50 years, afraid to wait another 45 years." I can't help but wonder whether it's about the end of the four or five years, or the way of the four or 50 years, and whether she knows what she really wants.

The day after the tweets, I met the first applicants as sponsor. Before that, I had just read The Deep Ocean, where the general feeling could be summed up as calm, and where I could not self-screech and I could not just blow up the words "what the fuck" like a man next to me, it was just a quiet stream of tears, and until that day there was no intermittent blunt pain and a desire for a second brush. This slightly unattractive reaction has become increasingly frequent for me in recent years, not only in the face of literary works, but also in the face of real life. Why is that? It's my world that's bright and I understand incompetent, or I'm sick of the medicine, or I've left the night behind so I can be politely remembered and laughed. I have shared with you my external manifestations and my inherent doubts, which have not been effectively answered. But what's amazing is that when I went to the meeting that day and the thought of these days trying to write it, a familiar feeling came back, and people couldn't get their heads out of sight, and they couldn't move their rusty feet, sitting in the last row of the classroom and watching the movie. I know that my mother will never come back to bed, and I really hate the dark boss of the South River, and I know that the world is not really gray, it's me, and that's probably why I'm not moving for Deepwater.

Guided by a combination of arrogant and cowardly values and methods that hurt the enemy by one hundred to one thousand, I chose to enter the long night with my own initiative, and I saw as nothing but a dream.

In February, Wind Breakers began sailing.