While walking, I suddenly thought of Haruki Murakami. The newspaper said that he got up at 4:30 every day. At that time, there was an airtight black screen outside the window, and the surroundings were extremely quiet. He started working with a pen in his hand or typing on the keyboard. The bold characters were grouped together, and then he cleared them and started again. The darkness is slowly penetrated by the dawn, and it won't be long before the darkness will sweep in. I write desperately, think desperately, the characters in my mind are disillusioned one after another, and the stories are generated one after another. It seems that time is frozen at this moment, as if it can compete with some things in life that have passed and will never come back.
Concept: Dreams are very complex, like crumpled newspapers