HaochengYang

Mr. Lu walks down the corridor. He teaches primary school. He met up with old friends yesterday. Entrepreneur, famous writer, neural surgeon. He walks down the corridor. He teaches primary school. He remembers when he was a child. He remembers running down the corridor. He remembers that one teacher patting his head. He teaches primary school. His rent just got higher. His girlfriend is angry at him. His parents are disappointed. His degree sitting on the wall. He teaches primary school. Year after year, he sees his students go. Year after year, he feels himself getting old. He walks down the corridor. He teaches primary school. Yesterday he got a letter.

One can only forget. There're better ways than forget. But no better way to forget. For to forget is to forget, for to forget is to forget For the better ways smells bitter, for the better ways make your soul embitter, for you howl loudly, oh you whore of insensitivity. Let it burn, you cry. Let the hellfire brew. Let the heat give you a clue. For you had bitten more than you could chew. For women are a cursed thing, for they represent heaven and earth, and earth is barren and waste. For women are a blessed thing, for they represent heaven and earth, and heaven is lush and awake. There's no other way.

How must we stay sane? When the curtain falls but not in front your face. When the journey ends but not for your sake. When the engine of the world keeps on turning, When you look to the sky, you see the constellations screaming in light, you see disheveled faces treading a bridge of glass, and you fall, fall far far away, realizing that your dream states bitter, and the end is in sight. But it isn’t in sight. So you keep on dreaming. So you reach for that long thin thread. And you see millions dancing around you, marionette. For giving up isn’t a choice, for the other side of the hole, is a deeper shade of black.

Man of middle age, sinking into the sofa. wake up, wake up. The children are here, the children are here. A little voice say. 30 years have passed, since that golden autumn day. The medal you once had, is dusty under the tray. wake up, wake up. The little voice say. The man without ambition, the one ages day by day. Light your glowing stick, and cook without delay. Dismay, Dismay. The children who disobey. They don’t know the stick, was once high with flame. Ashes falls into the beer, you drink it anyway.