Gold-depended meat pan

In the dark, lightning thunders out of the window, and so in the heart of the sky, the wind rises and it is hard to recover. Maybe it's really old, maybe it's tired, easy to feel. A small flower, a plumbing cloud, a cooling eye, a light apathy that makes the passion go away... I'm alone in a strange town, becoming ever more sensitive and cool. Under a single light, a case of beer, cold liquid running through the body, and the wet wind makes the skin feel shaken. I'm drunk, I'm drunk in the rain. Look at the emeralds of Bermuda, where the pins have re-emerged at the top, running forward untidyly, leaving behind once and for all the longing to keep his pins and clockwises... as the luminous flow of men, without emotion, is insatiable. Suddenly I'd like to talk to someone, but who cares if I'm lonely on a dump night? Suddenly I miss the people of my hometown, the things of my hometown, the scenery of my hometown. Call my father's number, the old-fashioned beeping, the long wait, the phone ringing, the sound of my father's awakening: "Ding-ding-ding, still awake?" Tears sprung out, a familiar call, a nickname only used by my father, which brought me back to my childhood with no heart, no trouble, no pressure, no fear of my own. "Put down the emotions that will erupt at any moment and try to keep your voice calm." Father was silent on the other side of the wave for a while: "Is there something bothering him? Tell him." "Dad, I just want to hear your voice." Father didn't ask. It was a bond between father and son. I didn't want to say anything. As usual, the father began a routine inquiry. How are you? Have you been drinking? Have you been looking for someone? Did you eat and sleep on time? Did you smoke? For a son who has returned home only after a New Year in one year and who has yet to leave for 10 days in haste, it is only these repeated words that the father can communicate with me. On the phone, I let the tears flow, just a few single notes. Fathers are over 60 years old, and all they give him is an ever-increasing body, tired energy and old looks. He must have been very tired at this late night, when I woke him up from my sleep, but in the face of his son at the end of the electric wave, who was in no mood, he tried so hard to speak to me and inspired my emotions in the language of poverty. "Ding-ding-ding, it's late, go to sleep." Father pushed me to rest. "Dad, I can't sleep. Tell me a story." I completely forgot my age, irritated by alcohol, emotions and the tender tone of my father ' s voice, as the little boy who dragged his nose and stuck his father ' s nose all day many decades ago, snuggled at my father and gave me peace of mind. My father laughed, and he blamed me, and I can imagine that the old face must be filled with happiness. No matter how old we are, in the eyes of our father, we will always be the little ones he remembers. It is only in the presence of the mother and father that we can be so natural and patient. I think Father will be back at that moment in his youth, that dynamic, passionate age. With young wives, naughty children, walking in the warm sun to the next moment of his happiness. And how did he think about his old age today? And how can you think of hearing the beauty of a grown-up son on the phone on such a sad night? The father did not reject me, as long as he was able to do anything for me. The father began telling me an old story in his infertile language, tenderness, that I could turn back. Older and less flexible and coherent in thinking than before, the story tells me that my thoughts flow back and forth, and my tears continue. In this cold world, we all need comfort and warmth, and home is our eternal harbour, the home of the soul ... At the very moment when I was about to fall asleep, the voice of my father whispered: “Sleep, my son, awakening is yet another sun. Remember to eat breakfast and take care of yourself." I think, tonight, I can sleep. Get up in the morning, make yourself a little early, have a pot sticker, have soda, have love, have hope... ... just like happiness, have nowhere to hide and want to cover up. I pray only that when I have fallen, there will be a yearning for happiness. It's not me who's sad, it's time. Time is only a song from the heavens and the earth that sings, or sings, or does not sing, and is resounding in the hearts. A moment of tomorrow and a moment of yellow. And I looked back in the mountains of the dust, and the light of the fire was on the side of Sam. Many years ago the scenery, many years later... ..the hearts of the people are long gone。