Little Spectator

About This Novel

I am looking for a sunny day to write the following. There was no sunshine in Shenyang for many days. After the snow, the sky seems tired and the clouds are dull. The weather is quite good today, and the sky is neatly cut out from the rooftops. The snow on the edge of the curb turned crispy and turned black, revealing cheese-like holes like people had peed. Willow branches are preparing to suffocate themselves. In such weather, I dare to recall the past events of the 1970s. Yes, I was a bystander as a teenager and saw something. Those days become heavier and heavier as I get older. And if I face the leaden sky outside the window or write late at night, I will feel extremely uneasy, as if I am forced to travel on a road of broken ice trodden by leather boots. What writing on a sunny day means to me is that I have finally got rid of these things. In 1968, I was ten years old. What I recall is what I saw when I was around ten years old. I can't remember the specific year.

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