Yang Qingguan's bed was in a thatched hut, one and a half meters away from the cesspool, with only a plastic sheet printed with faded peonies separating it. In summer, the asbestos tile roof absorbs the sun's rays, turning the entire house into an oven. His only cooling tool is a cattail leaf fan with a hole in it. His arms felt sore when he fanned too fast, and the heat became unbearable when he fanned too slowly. He fanned for a while until he couldn't lift his arms anymore, and fell asleep in the heat and the smell of ammonia. The cousin who fostered him had a floor fan with three blades and a shaking head function at his house, which cost 280 yuan. Yang Qingguan stood at the door and felt the cool breeze leaking from the crack in the door. That was the first time he clearly realized that there are two kinds of people in the world: those who blow a fan and get pain in their shoulders, and those who fan their arms even if they get sore. And he, Yang Qingguan, will always be the second type. He thought this realization would make him angry, but it didn't. He just became more silent. Until one day, a girl who looked as clean as if she had walked out of TV transferred to the town. Yang Qingcan found that something in his heart was stirred. He knew that some of his ideas were ridiculous and outrageous, and he knew that he might not even be qualified to be hated, but he couldn't control his mind.
And some things are quietly growing cocoons in the seams of his bones.
