The solar system is broken

Been hungry all night.

Gird the waist and strangle it hard.

The refrigerator in Huoshan's house is so touching. There is only one fish, emitting a strange light.

There is mist on the Purple Mountain and it's cool.

Zishan Cemetery is actually not on Zishan, but in a church near the river.

The church is a Gothic building with two tall spiers.

The lines are stiff and straight.

God looks down at the visitor, from a distance, without any emotion.

A large iron bell hung on a bell tower, swaying gently in the breeze.

Slanting shadows are imprinted on the mowed lawn.

Two huge stained glass doors are open.

He was wearing a dark suit with a white flower pinned to his chest, which the writer didn't recognize.

They held one in their hands, which was also white. Others held an orange chrysanthemum.

The dark coffin was also covered with chrysanthemums.

White and yellow represent solemn mourning, white chrysanthemum represents tragic condolences, and aster represents remembrance.

This arrangement is in line with the Chinese style.

The priest recited the eulogy, "Almighty Heavenly Father, your name...the merciful God..."

The priest was a middle-aged man with a bare head, a buttoned priest's robe, and an almighty Brassica in his hand.

It is long and full of religious stylized language, which these writers did not understand well.

In fact, most people don't like it.

They were talking in whispers.

"You are so smart, you are the only one who carries an umbrella"?

"So what if he's smarter than them"?

"No, that's a walk-through room, Barbara won't want it"?

"Of course he's right, but that's not an excuse"?

"Body and painting, how much do you think it will cost?"

"Two egg yolks, plus a tablespoon of sugar"?

"What the hell does it have to do with him?"

“Only blue and small sizes left”?

"Five times, no reply"?

(Poland, Szymborska's "Funeral")

This situation also affected the writer, and his stomach growled unsatisfactorily.

"Gugu~"

The lazy man Huo Shan didn't eat breakfast at all and drank liquor on an empty stomach. What's even more annoying is that Huo Shan said that he had an empty stomach after the first cup, but he didn't feel empty after the second cup.

Hungry.

Looking back to the side, Huo Shan had disappeared and the bench was empty.

Alas~

"If there is a sandwich, it will be cute," the writer said while pressing his belly and speaking a few words between his teeth.

“What about the chicken legs?”

"It can be said to be great," the writer rubbed his stomach, his stomach acid was celebrating their victory crazily.

"Qiang Qiang~"

Chicken legs, bubbling hot.

"Gudong~" The writer's Adam's apple twitched and he swallowed a mouthful of saliva.

"Master," the chicken leg shook twice.

Whatever comes into your mouth, you must eat!

He grabbed it, turned it over and gnawed it.

"General Huo's family doesn't care about food?" A cold voice came from the other side.

A cold gaze fell on the writer's heart.

This feeling is that Han Linger has not run away.

"Obviously he was unhelpful," the writer swallowed the drumstick in one bite, not forgetting to suck on the bone shaft twice at the end.

"Then why don't you come to my house."

"Dah ah~ Dah ah fell to death!" The writer chewed off the brittle bone, licked it again, and then reluctantly took it off his lips.

"Qiang Qiang!" Another chicken leg.

"Huh?" The writer raised his head.

Xiao Li raised her head with a smile on her face, still wearing the same maid outfit.

There is an iron basin on the knee, which is full of chicken legs. There are probably about ten of them.

"Xiao Li, there are so many~"

The chicken leg bone in my hand fell to the ground.

If I had told you earlier, I wouldn't have had to...

Xiao Li blinked, "There are many more~ I went to the monastery kitchen to steal them."

"Stealed?" This little girl was completely imitated.

"It's okay, we left Yi Yang inside, we just need to have the same tone..." Xiao Li made a silent gesture and whispered.

"Have you learned how to frame someone?!"

"This is not to see the master..." Feeling wronged.

"Listen to me and thank you~" The writer was speechless and continued to chew.

"Master, come on, finish this bowl~ Come on, let's die without proof." Another one was handed over.

...

"Haha," Han Ling'er wore a long black skirt today, with a top that covered the whole body, but it was still tight, and her breasts stood proudly.

He crossed his legs and looked askance at the starving ghost.

"You're not afraid of me, are you?"

"Uh-huh."

"Can you have some backbone?!"

"No."

...

Where there is resistance, there is oppression. In order to prevent Han Ling'er from feeling happy, the writer decided to kill herself, leaving her unhappy.

"Alas~" Han Ling'er crooked the writer with her right hand.

??

The writer ignored it.

"You're famous."

"What should I say?" The writer worked hard.

"Didn't you notice that the priest had finished his eulogy?"

"Is there any?"

When he raised his head, the Mediterranean priest, holding the rue floating slightly in his hand, stared blankly at the writer, with the corner of his mouth twitching unconsciously.

"How's it going? Isn't it quite famous?"

"It's not bad," the writer said numbly, taking a bite of meat.

The eyes in the front row were constantly focused on him, with shock, confusion and other complex emotions.

The writer slowly dropped the chicken legs in his hand into the iron basin, showed an awkward smile, and waved to the crowd, telling them to turn around.

Rustling, rustling~

Everyone turned around.

"He doesn't look like a gentleman."

"I'm really sorry to see this scene, it's so heartbreaking."

"The beer you mentioned seems not very cheap..."

...

"With Guangrao's virtuous name~"

The priest glanced at the writer and continued to recite his prayer.

"Next time, choose one with less flavor~" Han Ling'er turned her head and reminded the writer in a low voice.

It turns out that it was the smell that attracted this group of people.

"Xiao Li, please return the things, or Yi Yang will be beaten to death." Han Ling'er crossed her legs and gently lifted the hem of her black skirt. The white part was very eye-catching.

"Okay~"

Picking up the iron basin, Xiao Li half-bent and quietly walked out from behind the bench.

"I haven't finished eating yet~" The writer was about to grab Xiao Li, but he met the priest's murderous gaze. His body trembled and he gave up.

"Continue to be embarrassed?"

"I'm so embarrassed, why don't I miss these two!" the writer muttered quietly.

"Come to my house tonight!" Han Ling'er put her legs down.

"What?" The writer was very alert.

"Ask the question~" Han Ling'er smiled and winked at the writer.

I hate the cold, this is definitely a trap.

"I won't."

"It's very simple. You fill in the blanks and I do the math~"

Oral calculation? Fill in the blank, "Are you sure you are not driving?"

"Guess~" With a blink of his left eye, Han Linger ran away.

Calculate orally? Calculate the length orally. Fill in the blanks? Fill in the spaces.

The sky turned dark and gray, and it was going to rain.

The wind gradually became stronger.

It blew through the gap in the minaret, just like the old man's weak whimpering before the break, low and weak.

Despite the priest's voice and hypnosis, he still spoke in an orderly manner.

Guangrao's life was very long, about 500 years, and I can't finish it in a short while.

The writer became a little bored.

"Mr. Chicken Leg~"

"Um?"

Inadvertently, there was an extra person on the bench.

He is a man in black clothes, a bit old, with white hair and curly hair, and round eyes with gold rims.

"This is my business card."

A blue card with three big characters "Institute" written on the front.

"Who are you?" Suspicious.

The writer is sure that he does not know this person.

"I am the person in charge of the laser research project, Dora." The man's voice was stiff, grainy and sharp.

"I'm a writer."

"We need your help." A fully written design draft was handed over, "This is a simplified diagram."

It was so direct, and then the writer saw the structural diagram that he saw in the newspaper the day before yesterday.

"this..."

"Sir, don't delay, we can afford it."

This is not a matter of being able to afford it. The main thing is that you are not at an industrial level, and neither am I.

And you, how can you help me just by introducing yourself?

"I've seen the news," the writer shook his head, "I can't help it..."

The man looked at the writer suspiciously, as if he didn't believe that the writer could do nothing.

"Of course...it's conceivable~"

The man's eyes became intense. He grabbed the writer's hand and shook it hard twice, regardless of the oil on it.