When the epidemic came again, the kitten was sick. When the cat is sick, it gets smaller. So I called it "kitten". On ordinary days, I refer to it as "Neptune." The name of a star that is so far away that people are full of fantasy, indicating that its arrival is like Neptune wandering to me, with the fog of the wandering planet's atmosphere and the thousands of years of time in the depths of the universe. greeting. There are also many times when I call it "Cat Cat". This overlapping rhythm has a feeling of love that arises spontaneously in people's hearts. It is the cuteness that people instinctively blurt out, just like the simplicity of the nineteen ancient poems. Now, it's sick, and a "little" word is enough. It's that little, fluffy little guy lying there quietly, breathing quietly, behaving. Maybe it was like when it was very young and had not left its mother, but it was something I had never seen before. It slept, but it wasn't completely asleep, it was just half asleep and half awake, lying there, with its little head, soft little nose, four little short legs, and four cool little paws all on top of it. to the sofa. Like a bird trying to bury itself in something, leaving only the long soft fur all over its body, warm and messy, where it rises and falls with its breath. I know that its one is hidden in the sofa, and the other big half-exposed eye will open every once in a while. Like as soon as I walked past. You can see its slightly open eyes. With that half eye, it seems to be looking at me, but it seems to be looking at nothing, only the small nose is moving gently. After the injection in the hospital, it may be that the effect of the drug has come up. Now, it will quietly taste this feeling alone. Will it hurt? I do not know either. It won't tell me. It and they always are, always love to deal with these bodily feelings alone. Just like a lion on the grassland, injured, sometimes on the verge of death, but there is no painful cry, just squatting in the same mighty wind between the mighty world, silent, licking the wound alone. I glanced at my phone again, and there was no more information about the epidemic. Various investigations and investigations were underway. The result was like a spinning big Frisbee that would burst out all kinds of marbles at any time. No one knew where it would be launched. out what. And people have long been accustomed to this kind of randomness and contingency, this kind of feeling of tightness and fate. I know what I'm vaguely worried about, the fate of the kitten, when the condition will get better, the guarantee of follow-up treatment, what if I am in isolation, and so on, the impermanence of life caused by all kinds of uncertainty . The Coen Brothers movie "The Ballad of Buster Scruggs," which I watched last weekend, is also about many themes, but it's also equally impermanent, and life. about the contingency of life. Its six stories are so concise and clean, like those wind-swept stories brought back by travelers who have returned from afar. Each is related to death. In the first story, a stray cowboy rides his white horse through the craggy, rubble-filled Wild West. His singing also drifted in the valley. He smiles and sings: "...the nights are cool, I'm stupid, every star is a pool...and he smiles as well, and uses his magic marksmanship to deal with the scumbags, like the guys who don't play cards. It looks like , his singing is always affectionate and sweet, and his gun never misses. However, when a duel ended happily, and he was just about to sing another song, he heard a beautiful music from a distance. He He realized that it was the sound of the blues harmonica, which was different from the acoustic guitar he was playing. As the sound got closer, he saw a black shadow walking towards him under the sun, like his opposite. And He was dressed in white clothes, wearing a white hat, and riding a white horse. He was dressed in black clothes, wearing a black hat, and riding a black horse. After a while, he saw him walking up to him, and said easily that he was a "death messenger" who was fighting for victory. Come. Then, a new round of duel, he felt something, in the still-to-be-surprised, the bullet had shot through his head, and everything came to an abrupt end. So, his last song sounded, he long Out of white wings, turned into an angel and flew into the air. The song was: "...when a cowboy turns his boot spikes into wings..." Death is so quick and unpredictable. The second story, in the wilderness, on the grassland, the wind blows Through the creaking wooden reels, and blowing through the grass, horsetails, cattle. This is the background sound. The first time "Unlucky Cowboy" was hanged by his neck from a tree, he was lucky to be rescued. The second time, he again He was hanged on the gallows, and he still wanted to leave his fate to chance and luck. In the moments before the execution, he smiled indifferently, playfully and proudly, and said to the person beside him who was also about to be executed but was crying miserably. : "The first time? At this time, he felt that time was a wonderful gift to him. He also saw more beauty in the world. For example, the beautiful girl under the execution platform was smiling shyly and sweetly at himself. The heart seemed to have reached heaven. However, it was at this time that luck did not appear a second time, and the promised death came on time. The hammer and knife fell, and his world turned into complete darkness on the shroud, like a new Back to the "nothing" of having nothing. Death is also like a fluke. The third story, "Compassion is not forced, it comes down to earth like nectar. "The time has come to the snowy winter, and the mountains are quiet in the cold wind and snowflakes. Quietly, the rows of aspen and pine forests in the valley silently watched the travelers on the road. The man driving the carriage through the snow is an old "magician" and his magic: an "orator" who has lost both arms and legs but has extraordinary oratory skills. They will travel this winter, through village after village, performing for the people there. Every time their wandering magic troupe stopped, set up a green stage, put on a stool, lit four gas lamps facing the stage, and then pulled back the green curtain, and the magic began. At that time, the speaker would "sit" on a high stool, without arms or legs, with his head almost touching the tent at the top of the stage, leaving himself in the bright and illusory light of the stage , showing unreal height. His face was lightly painted, and he had captivating, round, innocent, confident eyes. He raised his slanted head slightly from the light, and the speech began. His eyes radiated light that belonged only to the soul, and his voice penetrated the silence of the mountains and villages. He tells ancient legends, stories from the Bible, myths, and fables, and the speaker's declarations. He, the old "Magician", cooperated with him to create sound effects for his stories, so that the rolling thunder fell and roared into the world. As a result, his narration penetrated time and space, and became the audience's trance, wonder, emotion, passion and fantasy. And in the end, he said, "The farce is over. And don't forget, we actors are all elves. All disappear, disappear into these ethereal illusions..." Time and time again, life seemed to give them such a road. In all the different villages and towns along the way, the magic is performed again and again, only the same content is performed each time. And from the magical world back to the real, they have a different world. The old "magician" has to serve the disabled orator from his life, feed him, help him defecate, and dress him up. In the woods at night, they lit bonfires, and as the snow fell, the orator sat looking up at the falling snow. He felt that in the jumping of the firelight, they were like fireflies flying towards him one by one, with a wordless mystery and comfort. So, he could not help sticking out his tongue, like a child, to taste the smell of snowflakes. On the other hand, the old magician on the side was fiddling with the bonfire and seemed to be thinking about his own worries. Obviously, as the speech is repeated more and more and attracts fewer and fewer audiences, the old magician in charge of the operation has obviously fallen into worry. Until one day, he There is a new turning point, and a chicken that can calculate has become a new favorite of people. So he bought the chicken, let it sit with the orator in the carriage of the carriage, and went on his journey with himself, only to wait for that moment to come. Finally, on a snowfield, beside a small river with water as deep as blue, he stood in the pure white snow and tentatively threw a stone into the water. Then he walked over to the orator sitting in the carriage and smiled. In the days that followed, the snow fell even tighter, the earth became a vast expanse of white, and snow drifted between the whole world. He's still driving his wagon-- The mobile magic station is driving in this world. However, in the carriage, only the chickens in the cage were left swaying with them. Stones are thrown away, and death will be covered by snow. Perhaps, in his mind, he would never forget the round pair of the orator, who always looked innocently into his own eyes, with a hint of sad pleading in those eyes. The fourth story takes place in Golden Valley, the green heart of the canyon. There, clear brooks meander and flow gently over coniferous valleys and flower-filled meadows. The red deer ran into the stream to drink, and the owl jumped on the branch and stared at everything with its big round eyes. There are no human masterpieces to be seen there. And one day, a human singing sounded, causing a commotion in the canyon. The red deer raised its head from the stream alertly, looked around curiously, and then turned to leave. The owl slightly inflated its feathers, then fully spread its wings and flew away with mighty force. At this time, an old man came, an old gold prospector, pushed aside the leaves and broke into the sight of nature. He also leads his donkey and sings. He's going to get gold from here. He took a shovel, dug holes one after another by the stream, filled pots with pots of soil, and then put the soil in the stream to scour the stream, in order to find the whereabouts of the gold mine. He said, "Mr. Mine, you are waiting for me, where are you? I am old, but you are older than me. I will find you!" So, day and night, he was talking to him Fight the stealthy Mr. Mine. In order to survive, he also went into the water to catch fish, climbed trees to steal bird eggs, and was seen by owls at the same time, making him a guilty conscience. He didn't care about it, he let it all happen in the silent breathing of nature, the gaze of the owl, and the leisurely walk of the little donkey. In the end, he finally succeeded and found a huge gold mine. However, when he was chiseled and ready to take it away, a gun was shot in the back. This is completely unreasonable. He understood, he was angry, he roared in his heart. So, with tenacious willpower, unshakable desire for "Mr. Mine", patience in waiting, and some good luck, he counterattacked unexpectedly, and finally defeated the attacker, buried his body, and also Saved his own life, and left contentedly with the gold mine. At this time, the land behind him was still green and full of vitality. The red deer returned to the stream, the owl continued to stare at everything, and the scent of flowers, grass, and fir forests remained. Except for the mines dug up, nothing seems to reveal the fierce reversal of life and death that has just happened here, and the contest between human willpower and greed and sin. The fifth story, is the longest and looks the closest to realistic one. Cowardly girl, who decides her fate? Why did she unexpectedly shoot herself in what should have been a happy ending. Is such a death worth it? How did her decisive bravery in that moment come about? And behind this bravery lies the absurdity of reality. Death is also often accompanied by absurdity. The sixth story, a carriage that never stops, they are all sitting in the carriage, galloping forward, they are going to drive from the bright sunset to the dark midnight, and during this period, the carriage will never stop . Time is a one-dimensional arrow, the light falling on their faces gradually dimmed, and they chatted, argued, and sighed in this vanishing light, and told their beliefs, concepts, and lives. And later, the song of the "Soul Harvester" sounded: "...find six beautiful girls, come and carry my coffin; six beautiful girls, come to support my soul. To each of them, rose Blossoms; so they don't leave with my aftertaste..." It was a wonderful breath of death. Finally, the destination arrived, and it was the only "hotel" in the dark fog. They knew the time had come, and they were going to walk through that passage there. Can you pass? Death is already happening itself. All six stories are over. I know that they are all exaggerated, absurd, and yet completely in line with reality itself; they all point to the impermanence of life, yet show that it is the norm. The night was getting heavier, and the car windows had begun to sound like the surging waves and the roar of trains, the continuous sound of cars. I got up and looked at the kitten. It had really woken up, but it was still lying there fiercely, with its big eyes open, staring blankly ahead, but there was nothing to see. It seems to be passing something, enduring something, or just thinking about nothing, just passing the time. Like a wounded lion on the prairie. It sounded: "...Six fair maidens, come and carry my coffin; six fair maidens, come to support my soul. To each of them, rose clusters; so that they will not leave , smell my aftertaste..." It was a wonderful breath of death. Finally, the destination arrived, and it was the only "hotel" in the dark fog. They knew the time had come, and they were going to walk through that passage there. Can you pass? Death is already happening itself. All six stories are over. I know that they are all exaggerated, absurd, and yet completely in line with reality itself; they all point to the impermanence of life, yet show that it is the norm. The night was getting heavier, and the car windows had begun to sound like the surging waves and the roar of trains, the continuous sound of cars. I got up and looked at the kitten. It had really woken up, but it was still lying there fiercely, with its big eyes open, staring blankly ahead, but there was nothing to see. It seems to be passing something, enduring something, or just thinking about nothing, just passing the time. Like a wounded lion on the prairie. It sounded: "...Six fair maidens, come and carry my coffin; six fair maidens, come to support my soul. To each of them, rose clusters; so that they will not leave , smell my aftertaste..." It was a wonderful breath of death. Finally, the destination arrived, and it was the only "hotel" in the dark fog. They knew the time had come, and they were going to walk through that passage there. Can you pass? Death is already happening itself. All six stories are over. I know that they are all exaggerated, absurd, and yet completely in line with reality itself; they all point to the impermanence of life, yet show that it is the norm. The night was getting heavier, and the car windows had begun to sound like the surging waves and the roar of trains, the continuous sound of cars. I got up and looked at the kitten. It had really woken up, but it was still lying there fiercely, with its big eyes open, staring blankly ahead, but there was nothing to see. It seems to be passing something, enduring something, or just thinking about nothing, just passing the time. Like a wounded lion on the prairie.
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