Part 1
He thought it was his special function to gaze at a dark light for a little while, and everything that was before him was blurry with the lines of each object, and the whole world was covered in ashes, and the entire universe was turned into a plane, endlessly extended collapse, until it shook God and came back.
From childhood to age, he often plays this game, crawling out on various occasions before the presumed world is swallowed up, and there is no point in the surroundings and the surrounding environment that can pierce him. His world is walled, his bricks and bricks are self-constructed houses, and he keeps peace in his own order.
He was also on the lookout, in such a rehearsal room, where a few people sat together, an interview session of a play, where he had signed up for an actor audition, and the performances and self-presentations of previous actors, and he arrived at the moment when the world he had invented was facing the final step of collapse, which was the moment of victory, when the next person pushed his back with his arm. The whole world is suddenly in sight. They asked him to introduce himself and play a role in a favorite play.
It's an ancient script that has been written in thick pages, from the ethical myths of ancient Greece, which bleed to kill parents to marry them, to the autobiography of modern-day artists who hide their mediocreness with their nerves, which is the essence of the human language that has been in the dirtiest frontier for thousands of years, and each word that they say is engraved in a pillar of the shame of the human spinal cord, in the seed of a man whose mother's genes have been down for hundreds of years, which is the root of humanity. He thinks that this deep call has broken his balance, and that he has not spoken in the last six months, and that he has been trying to wait for some sort of grand destiny that has suddenly entered into an unbalanced body of life, which he needs to speak too much.
The last time he set up an order for himself to heal because of the collapse of a close relationship, the more he closed to balance because he was too open. The desire of the human person, as a human being, to establish contact with the outside world is constantly growing, and he is surrounded by a wall he has built, and now he wants to leave. He believed that there was something that would lead him out, and it was coming.
Part 2
He chose a play about a blind man telling you that an earthquake was coming, and no one on the street believed him, so he died here with the people.
He threw a few chairs over the ground and then lay on the ground, where a dead body appeared.
Four weeks of silence.
A few minutes later he stood up.
He was about to cry out, desperate, helplessly looking at everyone. He wanted to name everyone. He returned to his senses. He suddenly saw each other. He bowed his head, twitched it, roared in his mouth vaguely, started with a lot of bass, slowly sharp, until such a low cry filled his chest, he couldn't breathe anymore, he was relieved, vomited up and kneeled. On the ground, with his fingers on the floor, he screamed with a strangling dry bar, and he fell down on the floor, with his mouth and his tears flowing on the floor.
He closed his eyes and he didn't want to get up again.
There was an awkward clapping and a sound.
How do you break this?
Or is he not acting at all?
He's lying still. It's like you're not moving, you're not going to have to face anything, and everything is going to end up in the middle. The same applies to all, and the best way to do so is when an event does not lead to anything. No one is willing to break this situation.
It's been a long time since he was dead.
Some are destined to be left behind. It's time to end it, he thinks so. The eyes were again focused, the body and the heart moved, and he smiled. Stand up. Bow to everyone.
He said in sign language, "I am all of you, and now we are all dead."
He failed. That force did not break his throat and speak his language. There isn't even force. Is it just a fantasy? And no more talk becomes a lie to one's own soul, and the blind is unable to bear the burden of his dumbness. Instead of being his god as he wished, he has fallen into an infinity hell of self-formation.
Nothing. For the first time in his life, he felt a falling void.
When they returned to their seats, all of them were immersed in the hush-and-crack torture and were next to his next trip introducing themselves, looking at him and continuing their performance.
And to some extent, he became, as he wished, a crippled man, but that was his expression. They were still whispering, and a mute was able to play a blind man, and he received the prophecy, and all died of his mutilation.
That life was so hard, it kept looking at him. The smell of a hateful death spreads from the performer and the others next to him, and he did nothing wrong. He just destroyed this space's hypocritical, friendly, and mutually sensitive magnetic field, as if everyone would avenge him from now on.
He quickly fled this place.
Part 3
On the subway, the imagination continues to resonate with the loud sound of cars. One man raised his hand and asked him, "Why don't you talk?" One, two, three, four, five, all of them brushed up, "Why don't you talk, why don't you talk." The voices are constantly raging, questions become curses and curses become curses. He opened his mouth to explain that there was no sound, that people across the street looked at him, and he looked away. How fortunate is it to be able to speak with one character and one medium. And he became dumb and blind to speak. He's moving away from being a human being.
He ran and his clothes and shoes were thrown away, and he performed with his eyes running across the street, pulling people across the road, saying with his mouth, "An earthquake, run", almost with a thin sound in his throat. He even heard that little sobs vibrating. He breathed, people looked at him in fear, with their eyes filled with fear of content, and they really believed that an earthquake was going to happen and that no one had been injured by his force. As long as it is here, false and true can be confused, because no one cares if what you say is true and we can all survive.
I'm not surprised. He can't stop, it doesn't matter whether he can talk or not, and he finds a brand-new opening to "no words" - a new role.
"You didn't say you couldn't talk."
He looked in the eye across the street.
"If you don't talk, you should write it down. We have a play on handicapped people. I can take you there."
The opposite hand was in front of him, and he was still watching.
He held his hand up, he hid, he picked up his own hook.
They came to a brighter rehearsal room, with a few chairs in it.
He sat in the corner and another girl turned her head at him.
"I don't speak anymore."
The "Communist script" is an innovative project, not only a script, but also an open platform for building imagination and creativity. At its core is continuous creation, encouraging participants to continue writing stories of their hearts and to extend them to unknown areas. The glamour of the project is that it can be accepted and appreciated, be it a detailed epic or a simple short article. It is open-ended, is not confined to fixed circumstances or endings, but allows every creator to freely exercise their imagination and creativity. This diverse form of creation gives every story an endless possibility. Another feature of the communist script is its community nature. Together, the creators made the script an organism that grew and changed. Everyone is contributing to this common project, and everyone's creation will be part of the whole work. This method of co-creation gives life and change to the script. In general, the "communist script" is a place to stimulate creativity and bring people together in wisdom. It encourages us to challenge traditional storytelling and to break down fixed thinking patterns so that our imagination and innovation can be fully realized. By continuing to create, we can push the story further and more unknown, revealing the infinite possibilities and diversity of life.
Welcome to the paper.
The communist script.
The communist script, "The Prostitution Journal - The Answer."
The Communist script.
"I'll die in a cold winter."
"Communicated scripts."
The communist script is a private diary.
"The Virgins."
"The Cave of Doraemon"
"Filomella is a Girl."
"Men Photographer"
The Communist script.
"A Late Submission"