When I was a child, my mother went to work, afraid that he would run away, sent him to the West Street kindergarten, closed environment, the gate was closed, the aunt gave him a few pieces of bread, coaxed him, spent time and effort, the little me disappeared, and the playmate wild children together, playing with sand on the construction site of the play park. My mother asked him, where did you come from? I didn't say, you go, he took off his pants and rolled naked in the sand. Don't run around, just play here. Be careful to take the sack on your back. That night, there were stars, there was the moon, the street houses were next to each other in the street covered with straw mats, the summer was cool, the mother borrowed a rack car, let the little me lie on it, the little me looked at the stars, and the moon fell asleep. I woke up the next day and lay on my bed in the kindergarten house. More than a hundred children were playing in the yard, and the aunt looked at the children, paying special attention to the small self, and the little me left the children, walked to the backyard, and looked back behind them. Auntie followed behind, and the ego sped up. Stand still, little me, give you a dry bun. I opened two bricks of the waterway, drilled out, turned left from the backstreet, turned right again, saw the lighthouse, and knew the way home. The aunt found her mother and said, Little I ran again, crawled out of the eyes of the waterway, and he couldn't throw it. Not a caged bird, can't be shut. I was playing with sand on the construction site with a group of wild children, which was a halted project.
You see here the child, the little chicken, the two middle-aged women talking. prick. The little me has a memory. It's not in the naked body anymore. In 1958, there was a fire. See you tomorrow.