In the summer when I was seventeen, there was the chirping of cicadas in the wind, the scent of ink from test papers, and Jiang Qing's flying pleated skirt.
At that time, she was the god of Class Nine, the genius who could solve the last big question with just a few random answers, and the moonlight in the eyes of all the teenagers who dared not disturb her.
Later, ink splattered.
Everyone thought she had died, rotted, and died that summer.
Only the three of them knew that Jiang Qing was not dead.
She just took root deeper than anyone else in this shadowy blackness.
She tore up the admission notice with her own hands, and also tore up the "genius" Jiang Qing.
She sank herself into the deep sea and turned into a drowning fish, lingering in the quagmire of the market place, quarreling with people over fifty cents, and wandering in the gray fog wearing two different slippers.
This is a collective spiritual summons, a charge sheet called "the past."
They recorded her every sinking to prove that she never stopped struggling upward.
Live towards death.
This is not just Jiang Qing's self-exile, but also the watch shared by the four of them.
Even if you are in the extreme night, even if you are pushed into the deep water by life, you must live tenaciously, soberly, and well in every inch of desolation.
Intention: Living towards death is our common memoir