The walls of the mental hospital were peeling off, and Su Xi wrote his name on the back of the 17th portrait. Hereditary schizophrenia is like a sweater knitted by the mother. The more you struggle, the tighter it becomes.
The secret admirer held a rotting sunflower and told her love for her wound, but she used shards of glass to carve "bad luck" into his palm. When the surveillance camera turns into a one-eye peering into the abyss, is this taboo game waltzing on the edge of collapse the mutual redemption of two lunatics, or the cross-infection of mental plague? When the calming white pills dissolve into bloody confessions in the stomach, who is the real prisoner trapped in the prison of night?
