Stories from Songzhuang Mental Hospital

I was thirty years old when I left home that year, and he was forty-four. I stabbed him with the knife he gave me, which was a horn-shaped Tibetan knife inlaid with coral ornaments. I knew the injury was not serious, because my hand shook when I stabbed his body. I heard his groan. At that moment, I blunted a moment. When I was distracted, the knife also stopped going deep. I was a little limp, but I still struggled to get up and left him without looking back. I left Tibet and the place where my ancestors grew up for generations. His name is Tenzin. It doesn't matter what my name is. I have long lost my name and have become anonymous to this day. People are used to calling me Zhuoyima or Azhuo. In fact, that is not my real name. I am forty years old this year. He is not dead, he is a painter, and now lives in Songzhuang Painter Village, Beijing. I am also living a good life. I am a businessman and have my own Tibetan medicine production factory. I did not expect that we would still have stories, so I wrote it out. --Inscription