Look at the birds in the sky, who neither grow nor collect, nor store in their barns, and they are shot, and you are worth more than a few hundred sparrows.
Zhang Xianmin is such a man who likes to wander through ruins, not only because he is an excavator operator, but also because he is not popular. When I was a kid, six people were living together. The village of Zhang's dick was always cold, and three of his father's clothes were worn by the three children in the family. He is not as strong as the boss, capable of housekeeping and smarter and more concerned than the third. When he was on his turn, he always dragged fat clothes into the village to play with his friends, but his pants were too long, he was pulled down when he ran, he was always caught when he caught a ghost, and the children hid their heads in the village. Behind the wall, on the roof, in the ditches, they were found and ran away. I couldn't get away with it. On one occasion, he simply started wandering around the village, scratching mud and stabbing an ant nest.
He liked the village cats, who were often fed by rich people who lived in the compound, fat, but could not beat the skinny, blind black cat every time he fought, and then, as soon as the black cat fell down, the orange cat jumped away. Every time he's tired, he's in the village looking for the black cat, looking at the pigeons on the trees. The wild pigeons were grunting, and they were biting their necks without screaming, and only warm blood came out.
It's hard to find a black cat at first, it's always gone away, but he's been looking for it, and he's getting along. The black cat moved over the earth wall as if he heard something alertly crushing his body, relaxed and jumped before him. Lie on the wall and look at him and he sits down.
He wants to have a cat, but he doesn't have a place to meet a black cat occasionally in the wild; he doesn't have anything to feed. It, too, never caressed, usually leaves a distance, stay, and the black cat takes care of himself.
The village has always regarded the black cat as an evil thing because it is black and dared to go alone and steal the chicken that killed Aunt Zhao's house. It worked precisely and quickly, and when the second aunt lit the light and threw it out, she saw only one green eye flash, and the wings were pulled down as they disappeared on the other side of the compound wall.
The death of the chicken left the child sad because, in his confused and obscure memory as a child, it seemed that the first memory was a chick with yellow fur, screaming, shaking his head and walking towards him. He watched the chick grow up, remembering that its body had drawn strong and mature feathers. The chicken was with him when neither his father, who worked outside, nor his mother, who worked on the land, put the egg into his little hand, although the egg always disappeared. He also bullied the chick when he had just learned to go, and he called him to come instead, and when he hit him, the young child grabbed him and threw him in the trash. It's got a good personality, you reach your finger, and it never pecks at you, but it stretches your head. Even when it grows old, it does not resist the fact that the children sometimes hold them in their arms.
The aunt was angry because three days later his son's daughter-in-law's dinner was empty of material. The marriage of the eldest son is a difficult and expensive matter, but it is also necessary. The chicken is too old to be able to produce eggs, and she's hoping that tomorrow the chalet will kill it and teach him how to draw the chicken's blood and intestines. This fine and sensible plan was defeated by the black cat.
The resolution was supported by other chicken farmers. After their serious and lively discussions, they set out a detailed plan of action: let the hook pull it out, and the people come together. The hook had a small name, not from home, but from the fact that he ran out of pants and leaked his buttocks.
There are people in the village who do not go, and there are people in the family, because it is a rare thing to earn a face, and no one will go. So he took his clothes and hid in the corner of the village like a black cat. This time, he and the villagers never found him, but they caught a black cat not far from him. It struggled before dying and had not yet seen such a wild cat, bowed his teeth, scratched anyone who dared to approach it, shunned many blows of sticks and seized the net and pulled people away. People jumped out of their hideout and ran into a village, running towards a black cat, and then turned away to a faraway place, where they were caught by a dog-teaching.
There were people looking for it to die in the herd, and black was drowned by the khaki of howling, roaring and biting. These trained dogs never bite, but they have no mercy on any other creature that releases a little threat. Then there's only red blood and white flower bones.
When the dogs are locked up, he's gonna come up with a few pieces of the gnawed bones, trying to make them look like a cat, and he can't make them, and he's buried in the corner of the wall where they're usually stuck. And then the Geumba saw, and he came over and said, "Well, let it eat our chicken. You bury it, you don't know what it is. No wonder everyone doesn't like playing with you." He did not answer, nor did he grieve, and sat down, and the wild pigeons in the trees were grunting, as if they were more aggressive, and they seemed to know that they were safer.
A little bit, he went to work in the city, moved bricks and bricks and cement. He liked the city. It was beautiful, easy, warmer. With the money he earned from his first job, he sent it to a part of his family and bought his own clothes. Several times later, he bought bricks and wanted to build a house for himself in the city, on the second floor, like the rich in the village, which had been demolished for two days.
He was angry, "Why did you tear up my house?"
A group of people in uniform came and told him that the land below his feet was not his and that the State had ruled that he could not build a house there.
"Not mine..." he said, "Whose is that?"
"It is the State."
"Whose country is it?" he asked who was in charge.
"The country? The country is you and me, and we'll all be called the country. There's a rule that no messing around. You're not allowed to build this building without the planning board's approval.
"What station should I go to?"
"Don't worry, they won't approve this. The land in the city is expensive and the country is useful. If you want a place to live, rent it, like an outsider, you can only rent a place to live. It's like this new building, 100 million square metres."
"But I built this building?"
"You built it? You paid for it?"
"No."
"If you didn't say you built it, I'll see you just move the bricks here. They buy the land. You just build it for someone else. You're the one who built it, you're the one who owns it, and they pay you for it."
After that day, he fell in love with the demolition wall, which he used to do. He does not understand the state, policy and economic benefits, nor does he care about them. He simply hates building things for those who don't know or care about him. He sweats and goes to cement to make a city, and they live comfortably. He felt that people walking on the foreman and the street saw themselves as a brick, which was used to lay cement upstairs. These people lived in the house and were renovated outside in order to see no ugly cement and nobody cared about it except the company that could make money from them. And self-destructing is like revenge, pain and strength. He changed his name and changed it to Chang. He likes to wear black pants, black shirts, and he looks like a lot of working people.
Zhang Zhang Zheng Zheng was often crowded in a six-person spare room. He likes to eat dinner or to come out before he goes to bed, to use a flashlight, to see the ruins he's tearing off during the day, and then pick up anything. He picked up a long piece of wood, carried it back to the house and left it there after the work was completed; he also picked up a heating pipe, the end t font, and waved very smoothly.
The day he picked up the heating pipe, he rewarded himself with a ham intestine and was eating it and being seen by a black cat. The black cat was unsuspecting, and he looked and grabbed his pants and legs, staring at the flesh in his hand. He was surrounded by no one, looked at the cat faceless, laughed and threw the ham intestines on the floor.
The cat jumped up, bit the wrap with his teeth and shaved his tongue. He looked at it, and walked back a few steps and took the heating pipe.
Smash it up, the cat's not moving. Splatter some blood. Look around. He waved a few more times and almost threw up. And then he leans over, holding his breath, touching the fur of the cat, tearing it apart, pulling out the heart, touching it, squeezing it, touching it, touching it with its guts and intestines and throwing it into the ruins. He lit a cigarette, rose up and washed it, and threw it into the ruins.
This day, he found something unusual, something that appeared to be valuable in the light of the sun, and a section of it, like a table without a palette, felt smooth and even invisiblely strange. He turned his watch around and filmed it, remembering that after a few days his father was coming to pay me a tuition fee, he was relieved.
A few hours later, he woke up in the middle of the night and felt a feeling of discomfort, mixed with bloody excitement and fainting. He was covered with vomiting, dizziness, stomach pains, soft arms and legs, bleeding teeth, purple water bubbles on his face and back, a little twist of his head, and a hair fell off his head and was taken to hospital.
One day later, his father came to the hospital with San, bought a few pounds of fruit in advance and paid hospital fees for school fees. Is it a delusion that he feels so weak, black shit, hot heat, a little loose with his nails and teeth?
A few days later, when he was transferred several times, no one was able to judge his cause of illness, even his father and brother, who were in hospital for his care, lost a large bar of hair and felt sickened by the fever. And him? Even his skin began to fall off in large parts, and in a painful dizziness he saw the room in which he was living in constant swings, and even the doctors began to feel uncomfortable. He's quarantined.
Eleven days later, he had his hair taken off, his throat swollen, he had difficulty breathing, he had blood stains all over his body, and he had a septification. He had no good skin and the doctor ' s explanation had no meaning, and he was coughing, blurring, as if the hospital were coughing. He heard the noise, which was attached to the radioactivity of the doctor, as if it had been explained, but there was no way. He's cracking, detaching, melting, and the whole world is falling. The whole world, the world of its own, the world of its own, the world of its sweat, the world of its boredom, the world of its lonely, empty and cruel, has been crumbling and burying the world that he sought at the moment of his death, as it has been doing.
Read about
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