Eight years ago, I accidentally wrote Wu Ming Die with a reading count of 0. Eight years later, I accidentally learned that there were actually readers back then.
A short film dedicated to them. Although we have never met each other, maybe you have long forgotten, but because of your attention, I cried loudly in the cold and desolate night.
There are several stories about several people, either real or fictitious, or we have met them, or we have thought about them. Love is not so earth-shattering, but it is unforgettable inadvertently, and the authorities are just bystanders.
Regarding life, there are always some people who want to say it and others who cannot. What this book describes is just a few fragments, a few fragments among the crowd. Maybe in the same city, maybe on the same street, maybe at the same time. But I really don't know a few parts...