It's 3 o'clock in the morning, and I'm sitting in front of the computer, holding a red rope in my hand - it's not an ordinary red rope, the core of the rope is wrapped with something black, like blood residue. The recorder on the table was still spinning. In addition to my voice, there was also a woman's hum. The tune was exactly the same as the Republican ditty my grandmother sang before she was alive. This was my "gain" from visiting the old locust tree in Luomapo, and it was also the first time I felt that some things might not really be "cheats."
