I've been thinking about is death. My brain is nothing
but fragments of memories There was no sound but a complete silence. The emotions digested inside penetrated into every cell of the body like the juice spit out by a poisonous snake, then nourished the nerves, and finally died of poisoning. Every mentally ill person is an artist, but they don’t vent their crazy and extremely sensitive thoughts through art works, they internalize them into waste without a way, and finally become a “madman” in our normal population. Talk about discoloration. Crazy people are poor people, they have nerve centers that ordinary people don't know, they are fragile and sensitive. The details of life are full of tiring stories in their minds. They don't want to forget that they can't compromise. By nature, they can only become demons and monsters in people's eyes, although they only need a way. Whether it's a soul-moving girl or a girl's growth history. What they tell is a tragic story of compromising with the world and turning oneself into a normal person and destroying spirituality. The mental hospital is not a black box, the mechanism is that the compromised recovery does not compromise the death. I especially like Lisa, who is gratifying and soulful, although her life is destined to become increasingly haggard and pale on the pale sheets of the hospital bed. But she was bound, and her body could no longer follow her mind wantonly drifting into the distance to realize another wild imagination. Susannah painted her nails before she was discharged from the hospital, which was the last movement of Lisa's Rhapsody of Life. You weak people You are all weak Fucking people, you are all victims You people are fucking sick.... You are victims, you are the victims of world domination by a group of so-called normal but idiots. Finally, the cab when Lisa sat down went back to a beautiful new life
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