With the change of social status, David got several names, davy baby, trotwood, daisy, davidson, but no one was willing to call his real name, even he himself complained that I love people named me. The struggle between the id and the superego is manifested in the name. When I was young, I liked to be with a babysitter, a face of wax and a face of durch cheese, the power of which can only be experienced by myself. How vivid and real. Those elephant-like pistons, red sun-like eyes, who can flash such inspirations and record them all the time, hiding them in the antique box that they carry with them? How many people who claim to be writers can experience such joy and hardship?
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