Write a book adapted from the prototype and dedicate it to all those who have passed away.
I counted my heartbeats at the end of the corridor. One hundred and eight times. He said don't be afraid, I will give you my life. Later, when I lay down and the anesthesia wore off, I suddenly thought - he gave his life to me, but his life was originally mine. That disease was brought on by him when he was a child. He slept with a stray dog. The dog is dead and he lives. He was so good to me that it seemed too good to be true. It was love, he thought. But late at night, he held me in his arms and pinched my back with his fingers, which made me painful. It was not because he was afraid of losing, but because he was afraid that the debt would not be repaid.
I don't know if I ever forgive him. I can't tell whether my forgiveness or unforgiveness is true and which is reluctance.
One day when he was drunk, he said: "In my whole life, I only look like a human being in front of you."
I suddenly understood. He has no face. He lived on my face for all these years. And what about me? I borrowed his life.
We are all characters in a play, and after acting for so long, the mask grows on the flesh. When I peeled it off, there was nothing underneath.
Later the fire was extinguished. There was a man standing in the ashes, faceless and not going away.
His life was still dancing in me.
Intention: Take off the mask and recognize each other without a face. Love is a sacrifice, death is a fulfillment.