I Use Human Skin Books to Suppress Ghosts and Gods

"I only talk about myself, not just others. I just want to have a "resurrection card" after death, hahahaha." I have been walking for more than thirty years, and I have a dream. If you ask me who I am? It's like a rusty clockwork, just mechanically tightened, ticking away time for others. Those scales filled with expectations have never truly measured their own breathing. The taste of joy? It only floated up and down in the cup, and as the wine slid down, it turned into a sour and sore throat. Only in the hazy state of drunkenness can I dare to indulge my dike, let the deep-buried tears burst out for a moment, and wash away this unknown wasteland - there is silence outside the window lattice, only myself in the mirror can see the origin of every bruise and mark. I am not tired of shouting, and I am not looking for the other side. All the staggering weight finally fell back on these tired shoulders, and was quietly crushed and swallowed into the stomach. Time pours silently like an hourglass, and youth has become an ember on the other side. Looking back at the long road filled with smoke and dust, there was nowhere to identify my own footprints. I could only see countless "should be" piled up in the forest of steles, each one heavier than the last. Halfway through life, the remaining body feels like an empty valley inside. The soul is lost and does not know which fork in the sacrifice it has left. Even if there are thousands of words, they will only freeze into inches of ice in my chest. But deep in the body, there is still a lingering desire, beating weakly in the darkness, like a reminder: the cage is invisible, but it is not completely seamless. There is always a gap of light, enough to peek into the sky.