Above the waves, below liberation
On the calm, waveless sea, a tremor emanating from the depths swept across the surface. In an instant, waves surged, and broken seaweed stalks were pushed toward the shore. The cold moon hung slantingly, all alone.
At that time, only one migratory bird, lost and disoriented, accompanied him.
It was just an ordinary night.
The waves shattered the sea's tranquility; they struggled fiercely and roared.
But before dawn, peace returned.
It was a peaceful, ordinary night.
As I said, it was a peaceful, ordinary night.
What's the situation?
The third young mistress of the Yuan family sat by the bed, holding a candlestick illuminated by the twilight. The third young master faced her.
It can hardly be called bright.
The two fell into silence.
A moment later, a man stood up, paused by the window, and then sat down again. He looked somewhat bewildered.
"What are your plans now that it's dawn?"
The third young master paced back and forth on the ground, his head slightly lowered.
"I had no choice but to leave the city first and lay low for a while," he said, nervously biting his thumb.
"I'll go pack your things."
After speaking, the third young mistress stood up from the bedside, and the candlestick was gently placed on the low table beside her. The half-burnt candle dripped tears, like a bereaved person crying out their grievances.
As soon as the east began to show a glimmer of color, the door to the third room quietly opened.
The couple faced each other, staring intently at one another.
"...Hurry up, don't miss the departure time."
The third young master tightened his bundle, opened his mouth several times as if to say something, but in the end he just nodded, bid farewell to his wife, and left.
The height of summer has passed.
A refreshing autumn breeze was blowing early in the morning, rustling the leaves as they were moved by the wind.
The third young master walked briskly along the road, one hand supporting the cloth bag slung over his shoulder. His dark blue robe fluttered slightly at the edges, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead.
Most people are ultimately afraid of death. He walked straight ahead, always feeling that something was relentlessly pursuing him from behind, that thing with its eyes fixed on his back, ready to end his life with the dark muzzle of a gun.
With the dock for setting sail in sight, he walked even faster.
The ship was belching out white mist, and people were surging around. The third young master walked up to someone and said, "Excuse me, which berth is second class?"
The man, slightly taller, was puffing on his cigarette, looking down at him coldly. Suddenly, he gestured with his chin. He quickly thanked him.
I had just found a seat when I noticed someone staring intently at me from across the table. The man was wearing a stiff brown suit, had a hooked nose, round-framed glasses, and tanned skin.
He exchanged glances with the strange man for a few seconds, then lowered his head and unfolded the newspaper in his hand. He blinked a few times.
The person paused for a moment before finally walking away.
He turned the newspaper over and began to examine its contents closely.
The Japanese army launched a full-scale invasion of China, and the three northeastern provinces fell to the Japanese.
A village near Lankang was brutally massacred.
Many communists were arrested, and their whereabouts remain unknown to this day.
The enormous black fog, like a ghost, stretched its black claws toward the land of China. Some people, facing imminent disaster, lost their true nature and chose to hide behind the enemy to seek their own safe haven. Such hearts deserve to be punished.
Among them were also many chivalrous and loyal individuals who, in this vast darkness and silence, decisively stepped forward, putting the country above all else.
"Either erupt in silence or perish in silence."
He sighed at his narrow escape, but the situation remained far from optimistic. He felt constantly that a gun was looming large against his back, a feeling akin to having one's entire life hanging by a thread, awaiting the moment of death.
He stood up as the train passed through the third tunnel and walked forward silently. After passing two carriages, the train stopped at a certain point.
"Excuse me, what time will this train arrive at the station?"
The person opposite glanced at him and let out a hoarse, deep voice.
Six o'clock.
They moved even closer, almost whispering, their voices barely audible.
Where can it be seen?
"Jiangjing Avenue, Late Spring Hotel".
The lights came on again in the carriage; the train had already exited the tunnel.
At the junction of the two carriages, people brushed past each other and parted ways.
One of them was tall and had his hands in his shirt pockets.
In a train filled with people drowsily asleep, men, women, and children lay or leaned against each other in their seats. The third young master had a hat pulled over his face, his head resting on his cloth bag, and he too was quietly closing his eyes.
The tracks were overgrown with weeds, and the dark blue sky offered little light; everything was especially quiet.
It was like a dead train. People and others were subtly embedded in Murray.
Everything is a coffin—cold, low, and uncompromising.
The train continued forward, the stiff body turned slightly, eyes closed, actually in a posture of welcoming death.
"Whoosh whoosh" sounds a few times. If this were a coffin cart, wouldn't these sounds be like the doorbell of hell?
A few hushed voices finally broke the silence in the stuffy carriage. A young woman dressed entirely in red was flirting with her lover, leaning against the dusty and scratched windowpane.
"Good man, give me a kiss."
The woman chuckled softly, turning her head away without answering. She held a cigarette between her fingers, now half-burnt. Ashes fell, landing on her pale, high-soled feet.
The man reached out and pulled her shoulders, and after a few struggles, they finally kissed.
A mother in the carriage quickly covered her child's eyes, muttering, "How strange! How could someone do this in broad daylight?"
Shameless.
The woman took a slow drag on her cigarette, leaned lazily against the wall behind her, and smiled slightly, saying, "That's enough, Zhouyun. Don't set a bad example for your younger siblings."
His eyes darkened slightly as he glanced at his mother, who had just spoken.
Everyone you see on the street every day is a product of a sexual activity.
Have you ever found the crowds of people shoulder to shoulder strange?
The throngs of people shoulder to shoulder are a gushing flow of lust.
However, people prefer to remain silent about its significance. Both the good and the bad are compressed together, becoming a riot of faces everywhere. They while away their years in a state of mind that takes it all for granted.
Sex and violence are the root of everything; they are the very foundation of humanity. No one can live a fulfilling life without them.
However, people don't like to talk about them. Whenever they do, they frown as if they are looking at a rotting corpse covered in flies and dripping with bodily fluids, or talking about the most disgusting swill bucket in the world.
They scoff at it, but that's just who they are.
The mother gave them a cold look and muttered, "So young, and already trying to build a virtuous image."
"You..." Lin Zhouyun clenched his fists and was about to take a step forward when he was stopped. The woman looked at him and just shook her head.
The Chinese value the importance of "roots." These roots originate from the place of birth of the physical entity, from the Garden of Eden, the place called home.
This kind of root is only for [specific species] to sprout and flourish.
No one wants to know where the spirit comes from. It lies quietly dormant in the subconscious, awaiting a destined fermentation.
Whispers, breathing on a rainy day, the squeaking sound of excessive chewing—these are all sources that can arouse intense lust and violent desires.
That kind of bestiality puts on a mask on the path to purification through civilization, but in reality, it remains the same from beginning to end.
A prostitute wants to maintain a virtuous image.
All the dross was now just a faint trace.
The third young master got out of bed, looked at the watch on his wrist, and saw that it was already 5:20.
I turned slightly to the side and heard the clanging of the train against the tracks, the occasional snores from the person in the opposite berth, and the sounds of air rubbing against skin.
The train will arrive at the station in forty minutes.
Could that be the end of a spring garden bursting with blossoms? Could that be a vibrant and passionate summer symphony?
Will we then witness the solidity and density of autumn, and the sweet flow of its essence?
Will there be a pure, white expanse laid out by winter?
There will only be more falls and sacrifices, awaiting liberation and conspiracies, fighting with their backs to the wall and facing contradictions head-on. He couldn't help but clench his fists.
At that moment, the person opposite turned over and began snoring intermittently again.
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