Where Can I Sign

About This Novel

I have interviewed several people today, and their skin is ulcerated and their faces are covered with black scabs. Severe liver damage. I've been sorting through their materials. The tragic experiences of those migrant workers made me forget about food and drink. I kept thinking about myself. What would happen to me if I was also among their team? I can't imagine. Every time I write a piece of text, there will be a poisoned person dangling in front of my eyes. He or she is crying and looking at me helplessly, hoping that I can help them escape the pain. I can't help feeling sad and angry.

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