I stumbled along the road of life, which was full of thorns and mud, and I had been trudging along this road for a long, long time. There is a kind of people who wander around, that is, vagabonds. They are always naked, their heads are like bird's nests, their faces are dusty, and they look up to the sky and sigh but are despised by others. They eat the food they bring and drink the water from the knife spring. They wander around begging for mercy without thinking about progress. But I don't think so. They are not beggars, they are just wanderers.