When I finally got free after working for a month in a row, I found that I was not willing to go to bed. At 8 a.m., I felt that I had slept all my life. The last such morning probably dates back to three years ago. When I live alone, I always get up early. Sometimes I get up at 6 o'clock, fry two eggs for myself, and then sit on the rose red sofa to read. The morning is so suitable for Holly's meat floss cake or pineapple bread with a few poems. Then I went out to work. The flower girl who read tsvitaeva, Rilke or frost in the morning was locked in her home with floor to ceiling windows and little bear curtains.
Walking out of the door was a well behaved female political reporter. She designed the questions at the press conference in the crowded subway and was anxious about an interview application letter to be issued. From January to March every year, she haunts near the Great Hall of the people, the friendship hotel or the distant Beijing International Conference Center. Her lips are full of bubbles, her skin is vaguely allergic, and her hairline is always red. She has to eat kairuitan every day to stop its spread. She knows the complex oil price adjustment formula, is familiar with the subtle differences between this year's government work report and the previous year, and can guess the huge hands behind them from all kinds of words. She even had a video about the reasons for the rise of CPI. The website gave her 500 yuan of fare, which finally turned into a pair of beautiful sandals. She put on a walk with her boyfriend in Peking University and walked in the shade of rows of trees. The lawyer who made the video with her continued to harass her for some time, but it passed, just like other unhappiness at work.
Although sometimes I can't believe I've been doing this job for 8 years, I don't like it that much. Of course, I don't like it that much. Work gives me a stable income, enough to support me to buy all kinds of cheap earrings and put them on all kinds of places to wander in a daze. I also have a small social circle. From time to time, someone on MSN will jump out and talk to me endlessly. When I was single, one day a week, I would have an AA meal with my friends. In this lonely city, the dinner invitation seems to be a ridiculous proof that you have not been abandoned. What's more, sometimes you really need such proof. Perhaps the most important thing is that work makes me look normal. It is the legitimacy of my life. My colleagues and I complain about salary and leadership. A business card can briefly explain all my information: name, phone, email and location. Later, when I first met someone, he asked me for my phone number. I almost handed over my business card without thinking. Instead of receiving it, he directly stored the number in his mobile phone. At that time, there was a gentle warmth in my heart.
In kislovsky's film twin flowers, two veronics with the same name are stuck in two bodies, but they sing the same song towards heaven. Here, the same girl under two names is tired of running from one island to another. I only hope that one day she can settle down, because she prefers the island with poetry.