City, a little lover with 36D breasts

At 5:36 AM,
I could already smell the lingering scents of others' sleep. The nightmares that permeated the city were gradually dissipating, which was incredibly exhilarating. The transition from black to white, or perhaps pale blue, was exhilarating. After a busy night yesterday, I knew my time difference was completely opposite to others, like a fish accustomed to land. It no longer just breathes with its gills but also uses the air stored in its air sac as a necessity for survival. Animals are like this, so what about humans? I know that deep within this city, there are still people like me, lost in the transition between day and night. Perhaps it's him, or perhaps it's her. From their sleepy eyes, you can't fathom them, nor do you want to, because the path we take doesn't allow us to stop. Just as we've always been walking on our own path, yet remain completely unaware of it.
I hate thinking. My thoughts are like a bomb that will shatter me completely. When I recall or look back at my own writing, it's like reading someone else's story, incredibly exciting. I don't want that. To think how unintentional it is to treat my yesterday as someone else's experience, and how heartless it is to make excuses for myself. So I don't want to think, I don't want to talk, I don't want to share my life with others. But I can't selfishly treat myself as the title page of a book, irrelevant to the plot. I'm afraid of missing those colorful seasons, afraid of missing the brilliance of laughter and tears. The stage lights are extremely bright in an extremely narrow space. What do I need to prove? Maybe I just want to tell everyone that I'm still alive. Yes, it was
5:36 AM
. I saw the timer on my computer. At that moment, the blue light from the screen seemed to pierce through the curtain of night, quietly falling on my face. I was looking at photos as usual, and suddenly a surge of emotion welled up inside me. I always feel inexplicably moved, like when I see Ultraman toys displayed at a roadside stall. I feel touched by them, just like my feelings right now. I was thinking that every photo I casually clicked and dragged might represent the carefully chosen outfits and elaborate plans of each couple, who selected their favorites from countless photos to share with us. Our attention and our replies must have brought them immense joy and encouragement. I always feel a strong sense of emotion when I reply to posts. I never forget to greet them. Admittedly, I reply very infrequently, and my replies are quickly buried by other posts and become impossible to find. But I uphold my own feelings of being moved, hoping that those who see my messages will feel the same way I do, the same emotions. This emotion contains praise, a flutter of the heart, and pride for you. Your words and photos will stir the hearts of those city dwellers who are indifferent to romance and fleeting pleasures. In this self-protective, narcissistic, and withdrawn ecosystem, how deeply it will touch their hearts, how irresistibly moving it will be. —Beijing Fingertips (Changsha Fingertips), a confession from a man who has been a recluse for a long time.
I always tell people a little story, though I don't really understand it myself. When I don't understand something, I don't bother to study it too much. Studying is a brain-draining thing, so why waste my energy on nonsense? The story says: loving yourself and your family, even your friends, isn't love, because you have a relationship with them, they fill your life, so loving them is loving your own body. So what is love? True love is loving strangers, loving those who brush past you. Maybe this comes from a book I read, or from Buddha, or from a TV show. I don't remember the taste of the fruit anymore, but I've kept the pit. I always suddenly think of this philosophy, like Duan Yu's Six Meridian Divine Sword, sometimes present, sometimes absent, sometimes present, unexpectedly bursting forth. Yesterday, on a long-distance bus, I saw a thin, disabled old man in the bus depot. One of his feet pointed backward, making it difficult for him to move. He was dressed in rags, scavenging for recyclables. He "glided" past me at a pace of about 20 steps per minute, the speed at which a normal person would walk. You know what I saw? I saw his neatly combed hair, each strand perfectly aligned. I initially wanted to give him the coins I had left over from my ticket, but at that moment, I wondered if I was about to trample on someone's dignity and right to live by offering charity.
The city, with its heart of a prostitute, always harbors the restless masses, driving them to a life of decadence and hysteria. How I wish this were my lover, a lover with 36D breasts, a alluring woman waiting for the bus at the bus stop, her every detail visible through her close-fitting clothes. I also long for the city to be a large bed, every inch soaked in the sweat of excitement, the sounds of its intoxication and groans filling my ears.
Once I start writing, I can't stop. I never look back at what I've written before, and I always finish in one go, with a "masterful" style. I always flaunt my confidence and accept others' self-deprecating humor. I know I'm not a good writer. Sometimes I hear friends on social media say that XX's fingertip writing is amazing, but I'm not used to being called awesome. I hope people can see through my words and love their own lives and the people around them. This society has forged me into a cold-blooded, indifferent person since I was born. If we don't even have a shred of compassion and empathy, then we will eventually become insignificant and indifferent in the midst of superficiality. Every day when I look in the mirror, I think I'm so incredibly handsome, as crisp and crumbly as a biscuit. I always feel that my writing is so close to my own life. Of course, it's my own life. What a ridiculous state of mind! My thoughts are a bastard, and I spat on them as I passed by.
Sigh! I'm Zhijian from Beijing, born in the 80s, and now living in Changsha. I don't use sex as a pretext for my posts. I promote the warmth of this big family in a clean and quiet way. Thank you to all the friends in this community who have read this far. If you've only skimmed through this, I highly recommend that you reread it, because reading other people's stories is better than walking your own path.

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City, a little lover with 36D breasts

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