The survival picture of our generation is like being stripped of its roots by the high-speed machine of the city - the moment we are separated from our homeland, we are destined to be suspended in the sky above the steel forest. Those nights illuminated by neon lights are actually reflections of spiritual deserts: the commuter subway is like a flowing glass container, carrying countless faces formatted by KPIs; the window sills of rental houses are no longer alive with the soil of their hometown, and the local accents on the electronic screen always break into snowflakes when the signal is interrupted.
This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.
