I don’t think this series needs to be interpreted. Thank you Rocky, the poem one boxer sent to you was in the office thinking of the night when he was about to be beaten to death. It was really awesome at that time. The sunset in Los Angeles was waiting for me. Camel back home. The boxer’s heart is still hidden in his gloves. He bought a box of bandages and threw it in the corner. He picked up a bottle of beer and told his son about the principles of life. Putting on a suit that didn’t fit and telling a woman that he liked the current job, maybe An old man should be unemployed at home, lamenting arthritis and then planting flowers by the way. The expired boxing license has long been grayed out for sale. Only the scars left by his twenties are left. Boxer is a person who is not good at love, but I don’t like to see any woman crying. There is only one dog named sandbag left. Now that dog is also stubborn, but occasionally he mumbles a few words. The three boxers feel that they have lived too long. Life is really damn long. It’s still so wonderful when I ran straight back and beat a young man. Besides, there was a beautiful woman who kept staring at me and she was so happy. Maybe the blood dripping from my forehead is more than a rose. Flowers are fucking tender
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