When I was 11 years old, I was squatting in an alleyway eating popsicles when I saw a gangster in a floral shirt raising a watermelon knife. The moment the blade cut through the heat, blood spattered on the blue brick wall, and the redness was thicker than the rose sauce that Grandma Wang dried at the end of the alley. The popsicles turned into sugar water and dripped on the concrete floor between my fingers. I didn't feel scared - the hand holding the popsicle sticks was shaking with excitement.
OK, nice to listen to