Hey, it's you. Don't row away.
Let me ask you, have you ever seen a talking crow? Not the kind that imitates words, but the kind that has been holding back for six years and is too lazy to speak, and will make you doubt your life as soon as you speak. His name is Little Heihei, with fire on his wingtips, golden eyes, and a poisonous tongue. He loves three things the most: concave shapes, stealing food, and complaining about his eldest sister.
Who is the eldest sister, you ask? Fourteen years old, top ten in grade, even the pH value of zombie saliva needs to be calculated. The second sister is eight years old and sober in the world. You won't dare to lie just by looking at you. The younger brother is six years old and so handsome that crows are gentle to him. My father prepared twenty-seven versions of chili pepper water in the basement, and my mother shouted in the live broadcast room, "I will come downstairs when the number of likes reaches 100,000."
In the castle opposite, Dr. Zombie brings more than a hundred zombies to grab brains every day. The ones with iron barrels, those with roadblocks, those that bounce, those that are slippery, those with full-length mirrors, those that change color—all were beaten down by scientific knowledge, and then influenced by apples, they lined up to come to the manor for a late-night snack.
In 2026, will it be a crow that moves you?
