Cicadas Chirping on Paper

On the winter night of 2022, Lu Yan died in the office where he was working overtime. When I close my eyes, I hear the long and piercing chirping of the monitor; when I open my eyes, I hear the noisy cicadas chirping in 2002. My mother was still frying shredded pork with green peppers in the kitchen, and my father was still excited about the "guaranteed profit project" worth 30,000 yuan. Su Qinghe, who was in the last row of the graduation photo, was still holding half a pencil and did not bow to fate. In his previous life, he climbed to the top by riding on the traffic, but there were holes behind him: his son wanted to be raised but his relatives refused to wait, and the talented ones were buried in the dust. Once again, he will not chase the trend or take advantage of capital. Run a small campus weekly, set up a lively student forum, and create an original cultural and creative brand for a group of young people. Take your time, stay with your mother to take good care of your body, stay with that thin girl, and keep your painting career steady. The chirping of cicadas has been repeated for twenty summers. This time, he wants to draw all the missed and owed things into this hot summer.