Kotaro Isaka, ichijo artist.
In fact, if you have seen Isaka Kotaro's photo, you will know that the writer's own appearance is not ugly, and the whole person's temperament is tacky and handsome with a hint of cynicism, but Isaka Kotaro seems to have some obsession with his portrait. In the last interview (see Interview with Kotaro Isaka: Tears and Laughter Behind Reasoning Life), he authorized a photo but asked that it should only appear in the newspaper and not appear on the Internet, but this time there was some progress, giving a "portrait picture" that could be used casually, a koala created based on his facial image.
Kotaro Isaka (Koala), born in 1971 in Chiba Prefecture, Japan, loves movies and music. In 1996, he created his debut work "The Bad Guys Who Obstructed the Eyes", and in 2000, he debuted with "Audubon's Prayer" and officially entered the literary world. His works "Golden Dream", "Gravity Clown", "The Rest of Life is a Holiday", "Storm", "Gorgeous Life" and other published Chinese editions.
On February 16, Kotaro Isaka was invited by Nova Press to respond to readers' questions on domestic social platforms. As someone who had read a lot of his works before, we also contacted the publisher and interviewed Kotaro Isaka again. Unlike previous interviews, we did not exchange topics such as "whether 'love' and 'affection' are also a kind of superpower in modern society" and "how to arrange the fate of the characters", but conceived a novel together. Through the setting of the characters and plot of the novel in a short exchange, I believe that readers can more intuitively feel the inner literary world of Kotaro Isaka from the process of the writer's conception- a rich, interesting writer who always carries warmth in contradictions and conflicts.
Now, when you look down, you will find that this article consists of two parts. The first part is an interview with Kotaro Isaka, and the second part is a short story "Sleeping Assassin" that the journalist Miyako tries to write based on the setting provided by Kotaro Isaka in the interview. The full story is a total of 9966 words, readers who have no time can skip it, and interested readers can choose to read it.
Written | Miyako
In the interview, reporter Miyako and Kotaro Isaka talked about the "let the other party fall asleep" skills, reader letters, literature and reality, and the following is a story he tried to write called "Sleeping Assassin". A little long, welcome interested friends to continue to look down?
Sleeping Assassin
*A short story written by Miyako based on the settings set by Kotaro Isaka in an interview.
Stills from the film Gravity Clown, based on Kotaro Isaka's work.
Writers are always troubled by insomnia because the dreams in their brains are too active, always overflowing from the night that serves as containers, or sometimes even during the day they are wrapped in the unformed, slimy dreams of their brains. The only way out was to make those fermented dreams an entity in the oven—yes, he was looking for it in the kitchen, at two o'clock in the morning—at this point if he was baking it would wake up the neighbors and attract the police, and the sound insulation of the residential building had not been very good, although he had carefully checked his residence to confirm that there was no channel for sound transmission except for some slightly cracked round holes in the heating and sewer pipes, but the wall itself seemed to be able to transmit sound word for word.
He did not dare to bake the dreams in his mind in the dead of night, so he could only open the refrigerator, and the cold room had the remaining Focasha from yesterday. Now the things sprinkled on it have become more and more shabby, only cherry tomatoes and rosemary, not even pineapples, and there used to be pork knuckle meat and scallops, no way, he needs to save money. For the writer's wallet, the raw materials have become more and more expensive, and if he wants to fill his stomach by baking dreams, he must not only choose the right time to avoid being reported by neighbors in the name of disturbing people, but also bear the purchase fee, and sometimes consume some inner kindness - such as he often meets a rabbit in his dreams, but he has not been willing to put rabbit meat in the oven.
Stills from the film Golden Dreams, based on Kotaro Isaka's work.
In fact, as long as you engage in two cultural activities and participate in several writers' talks, you can get a good living expense. Publishers have been advising him in the past. Anyway, this year's reader's mind is full of rules and ideas, and the pond is densely packed with small crucian carp, take words or philosophical terms, pinch on the silver hook, a rod can always attract a lot of strips, as long as the people who participate in the pond fishing are somewhat famous on the line - if the fame is big enough, they don't have to throw the rod, the crucian carp will automatically jump up, and what dinner will be worried about at that time. The fish don't care about the bait, the fish care about the shadow of the moon's face thrown at the bottom of the water.
He was good enough among writers, with four or five critically acclaimed novels (though it is not known who commented on them). As for whether participating in cultural activities will affect the image, he is not so so-called, people always have to eat. However, when participating in cultural activities, he cannot speak alone, there must always be communication, questions and meaningless dialogue. And every time he spoke, he let the other person sleep—presumably from the morning after his coming-of-age ceremony. He remembered walking up to the podium as a class representative that day, the pale blue red flag, the pink grass, the grass-green human face, and the melting microphone with his ears sticking to his lips, and the tense atmosphere that distorted everything. The principal asked him to speak on behalf of the newly adult students and asked him what his ideals were in life. In fact, the manuscript had been revised, but he forgot which layer of the bag he put in, so he had to answer from memory, and just as he stated his future life ideals, all the listeners—the playground full of playgrounds—brushed and fell to sleep on the ground.
After that day, he discovered this magical ability in himself. He hadn't told anyone—it didn't really matter—that by the time he was about to say", "I'll tell you something," the other person had already gone to sleep. With this ability, he used it frantically in school, and as long as he didn't want to go to class, he just had to stand up and answer a teacher's question, and then the whole class fell asleep and could skip class with a big swing. At first, he couldn't figure out how to control when other people fell asleep, and when he returned to the classroom during a language class, he found that everyone was awake. The teacher stood in the center of the blackboard and looked at him in amazement, just as the Incas looked at the white feathered serpent god who had first arrived in Cusco.
Stills from the film Serenade, adapted from Kotaro Isaka's work.
Later, he found that this was related to the time he spoke, as long as he spoke for about ten minutes, then the other party could sleep for more than half an hour, if it was just a word, then the other party would wake up after a few minutes - the premise was that it must really be what he said, and reading the text was not enough. So, just like that, after he played his ability for a semester, the class results dragged him to the bottom of the whole school. It is really a particularly guilty thing to think about, especially those students who stay up late and study hard. He thought that this might be a kind of superpower, but the "super" must be beyond ordinary people, but the "ability" did not find out at all, he did not know what help the human race would provide if the end of the world occurred and needed gifted people to save the earth, and let the other party sleep as soon as he spoke. Perhaps the so-called final judgment in religion is useful, when the second coming Jesus Christ asks whether mankind is guilty, he can let the questioner sleep over - please don't ask again.
He took the cold Focacia, made a cup of hot coffee, returned to the table and sat down, and began to open the computer to read the letters in the mailbox. Whatever you do at night is like being a thief, especially when there is a glimmer of light shining on a person's face.
He was in a relationship once. For his ability, it lasted a long time, more than a year. He doesn't talk much. And although she does not like silence, she likes to be quiet. What breaks the confrontation between silence and silence is the words they convey with notes or messages. Often when he was writing novels, or when she was playing the piano, a note flew from the back of his neck, and sometimes the handwriting on it was only very simple "hi, what are you thinking", or "that paragraph just now sounds good" or something like that. There's also a cat named Peppercorns, who when in a good mood will run between them with notes and act as a postman — or just to get a workout. Occasionally, on the other person's birthday, he would record what he wanted to say into a video — he found that it was not okay to speak directly face to face, but it was okay to record the video. Probably because the people on the screen aren't real people.
They lived together for a while, and the only comfort was that she was completely free from the artist's insomnia problem, and at night she could sleep on the pillow as long as he said two words at the bedside.
The only regret was that she would never hear what he was saying. For example, when kissing, she would look up at him and ask if she would always love herself, and he couldn't answer with words. It's not really a very important answer. It may be possible to write down and answer with words, but words take time, even if it is very short, it seems like hesitation, and hesitation will make those moments of excitement in love freeze like amber on the way down, and let the insects that quietly weave the net die in the closure. But this is nothing, for two people who love each other, these can be run-in, adaptable, there is no contradiction in love that cannot be resolved - however, there is in life.
They can't live together because life is not only about love, but also about the office. He can't negotiate a contract renewal with the landlord agent, can't go to the bank to handle any business, when she is sick, he can't talk to the doctor about the condition, he can only stay in the corridor quietly waiting for her to come out and at the same time can't say any greetings at the first time, he can't go to the restaurant and the waiter to say what he wants, and the most drastic action he makes when she clashes with others is to stand up and say two words to make both parties fall asleep, and then hug the sleeping her to escape the scene of the quarrel.
After a year of being pierced by these thorns, big and small, she finally decided to break up. Maybe what he should be looking for, she says, is a girl who doesn't care about anything in life except emotion, "an Aquarius girl," and she's Gemini, sometimes floating in a world that has nothing to do with reality, and sometimes being tormented by things on earth.
Does this have anything to do with constellations? Can even the most abnormal Aquarius in the constellation solve this problem?
He didn't think so, but it didn't matter anymore.
He continued to read the letter, avoiding himself from being immersed in the sorrows of the past.
Stills from the film Gorgeous Life, adapted from Kotaro Isaka's work.
The last time I read the letter was four months ago, the notice bar shows that there are not many new unread letters, and the number in the red bubble is 11. He has been forgotten by most readers, especially the media, who are playing a game of matchmaking, red against red, colliding with each other and dying out. There wasn't a single letter from a reporter in the inbox. The group of self-proclaimed question-askers, every time he saw their questions, he thought of a blind man, wearing glasses baked with concepts and ideas, and once he took them off, he couldn't read anything. Readers aren't much better, and some email problems are crazy, but it's better to be crazy than an idiot — a little bit.
"What is the black moon?"
He replied: The moon is black when the plane passes. When the sun passes, the moon becomes pure black.
Next letter.
"My marriage has recently been rifted and I suspect my husband is secretly ..."
He didn't bother to read it any further and simply deleted it.
Next letter.
"I haven't read your new work in eight years, are you still writing a novel?"
He replied earnestly: "I have encountered the saddest thing for a writer, and I am still writing, but, just writing with my brain, my hands are not very obedient. (wry smile)
Until a letter made him feel a little different.
"Hello, I would love to meet the yacht driver in Edelweiss, there is always a feeling that there are a lot of mental activities and motivations that you did not write in the book. For example, on the morning of his last trip to the used car market, did he eat waffles? Did he just drink one cup of coffee on an empty stomach, or did he eat two more waffles? This is important. ”
Stills from the film "Coin-operated Automatic Storage Cabinets for Ducks and Wild Ducks" based on Kotaro Isaka's work.
The letter mentioned "Edelweiss" is his second novel, and he has forgotten a lot of it, and the yacht driver mentioned in the letter is the protagonist of the novel and a murderer. It was a novel he wasn't happy with, because the story was out of his control, but it didn't quite fly out of control. The reason why it disgusted the writer was that he changed his mind in the process of writing, and what was not intended to make him a murderer in the first place was other reasons, it was the life at that time, and the newspaper headlines he was reading at that time (rolling down the screen), and he wanted to express the anger in his heart at that time, so he used this cathartic method.
Novels should not be written that way. The novel should have its own way of surviving, similar to the green-haired turtle that was slowly cruising during the eruption of an undersea volcano, it is not unaware of what is changing on the seabed, but it refuses to respond with its limbs. However, this novel reporters like it very much, and they generally like it not the best novel, but the best question-asking novel. But in the end they didn't get anything, and when they asked the writer about the community structure as the background of the story with an attitude of perhaps piety or falsehood, the writer chose to open his mouth and let them fall asleep, and fell on the outline and annotations he had written for the novel, which seemed to be a sardine that had been beaten by some special material dream net - can? No, not yet, and they don't officially become cans until they hand the manuscript over to the auditors for sending.
It's not surprising that readers want to become characters in the book. Stephen King describes the "number one book fan" in reality. Many people stayed in fireplace-like workshops waiting for notices from Hogwarts College from the snowy days. Until the new century confirmed that owls and snow owls had become extinct in this city, until life fell to ashes, they still did not die. The writer was curious, he thought he had written about a dozen characters who were much more interesting and passionate than yacht pilots, why was she interested in this one character alone?
He asked the other side in the reply.
Two days later, a reply appeared in the mailbox.
"Do you still want me to say it?" Because this is the most garbage novel you have ever written, I can't understand why he ended up doing that. I want to meet him and figure these issues out. You yourself must know that you have not written a decent book since this novel. Heck, maybe I'm a too real reader, but if there are characters I don't think about, I won't be able to sleep—I've been a sleepless, thoughtless sleep I did before I hadn't slept for seven or eight years. It doesn't matter if you don't say yes, I can do it myself. In the novel, he didn't kill people in the end, I was ready to experience this plot myself, it's true, I'm ready for it. ”
He knew that don Quixote paranoid readers still exist today, and that when literary researchers wrote thousands of literary histories that collected the dots and dots of work into a chained galaxy, readers on the other side of the invisible universe also moved on new planetary chains. People laugh at the American gun murderer who read "The Catcher in the Rye," but it's not uncommon for such people to be read that ninety-nine percent of people pick up not guns but another kind of cheaper, softer thing. However, if the other party really kills people because they read their own books, do they need to bear a little responsibility? Isn't the director responsible for the incident that swept the audience because of watching a Batman movie—if only one person did it, it was just a crazy case, if there were ten, twenty?
He hadn't replied to the letter at first, and there were still a lot of questions churning through his mind that he needed to quiet down.
The first point is that he finds himself unable to provide an explanation for the character, and it is clear that the only way to prevent this strange reader from actually committing the same murder as the novel ends is to answer her puzzles, but the psychological concept of the character of the novel is not understood by himself. Is it necessary for writers to respond to the reader's questions about the novel – there is no doubt that there is none?
In contrast, the reader's new email a few days later made him even more conflicted.
"Last time you wrote that writers are not obliged to answer readers' questions, it is true, but don't you think about yourself, why the novels you have written are getting worse and worse, until the last eight years or ten years, people have never seen your new works again. Do you know why some novels can become classics, because writers have experienced extreme realistic situations. Milosz had seen many corpses, Dostoevsky had almost lost his life in prison, Primo Levy, who had come out of the concentration camp, Camus, who had joined the international column, and a long list of Latin American writers with names. As for you, the themes of your novels are related to life and death, but you have never experienced those extreme realities, how can you write profound works? The logically inconsistent driver in Edelweiss is just a manifestation of the character's hollowness. I don't understand this character, you don't understand, so where is the foundation of writer's writing? ”
The "fundamental theory" of the writer's writing is the tone he scoffed at when he was young, and for a long time he did not bother to respond. But as his writing dried up, he himself began to doubt it. He does not really want to deliberately keep any distance from the world, but his special physical endowment determines that he cannot have any continuous communication with the world, but can only talk -sleep-talk-sleep. He stared at the letter record on the screen again, thinking that this might be a way to try, first, to prevent this abnormal reader from actually trying to kill, and second, to play the driver of the novel to experience the whole process, perhaps to be exposed to the so-called extreme reality, and his own writing has some sense of weight, not so empty.
As he thought about it, he already had a rough idea in his mind.
All he needed was to choose a suitable location.
The location is the city's Shoe Number Coordinating Bureau.
The driver in the novel ends up killing the chairman of the local fruit growing company, but it's in a fictional African country, and in a city where he needs to find something pretty much the same— managing the lives of the locals with a strong sense of absurdity — even though all management is absurd from the start. Most of the features of the Shoe Commandery fit well with the final murder site. It is a unique administrative body of the city, founded about fifty years ago, when people like to walk on the road in slippers or foot shoes in the blue summer, and the new mayor was very angry after inspecting a circle of the city, thinking that people wearing large shoes that did not fit the size of the foot walked loosely on the road, and the whole person's mental outlook was decadent, so he ordered the establishment of the Shoe Number Coordination Bureau - people remember how in the month of building the steel shed, they stopped to watch and stretched out their machines to take pictures. It was as if the soon-to-be-executed prisoner was proudly exclaiming at the towering guillotine, fantasizing about what a glorious landmark the building would be when it was completed. After two months of anticipation, it was unveiled as a unique city landmark. The announcement in front of the door says that in order to improve modern spiritual life and establish a simple and positive urban style, everyone can only wear their own shoe size. After the staff comes to the door to count, if you need to change the shoe size due to changes in stature, etc., you must submit an application at the office.
Originally, this was nothing more for adults than the submission of one more form and one more personal data on record, but this provision was later extended to minors, on the grounds that the guidance of minors' mental outlook is particularly important. For the parents of adolescent children, they have to submit applications one after another. In short, people were secretly cursing the institution, but had to follow its instructions—following the white, curved, toothless, black mouth that absorbed documents and never spat out a penny. People who go to the store to buy new shoes must show the official government shoe code certification, and if a store is found to sell shoes that do not match the size, the store will be immediately investigated and rectified. Some parents secretly discuss with their friends, in order to avoid trouble, privately take the shoes worn by their children to exchange behavior, and can also report and expose after discovery.
He felt that he should use his abilities in this place.
Unlike fictional characters, a real writer cannot kill anyone but himself. So was he. No matter how much he hated a person or a group, let him do it, even if he didn't have to set up a sniper rifle two kilometers away in person, he couldn't pull that switch on a flesh-and-blood head. He pretended to buy some tools and dressed up like a professional killer, but in fact the ultimate means was to make the people in the building fall asleep, and in any case, in terms of external presentation, there was not much difference between falling asleep and dying.
What he needs to plan carefully is the time strategy. The structure of the Shoe Commandery Building was more complicated, and he had no way to directly see the target that needed to be assassinated, the Director of the Coordination Bureau. If he wants to do it, he must first go through layers of guards and people in charge, of course, the first thing to be sure is whether the director will really work in the office? He couldn't predict how long it would take him to find the director in that building, so he needed to talk as much as possible to the people on the periphery to keep them a longer sleep.
The day of the action was chosen on a clear Monday, and the weather didn't make him nervous. Although he has used his ability countless times, it is the first time that he has used it in a departmental organization. He called a cab and used a note to tell the driver where he wanted to go, it was the second time he had come to the shoe number co-ordination building, and when he stepped out of the car, he found that the building had not changed much compared to a few years ago, the two rows of trees in front of the door still emitted a palpitating sweetness, there were propaganda slogans hanging on the wall about half a meter, and the only change was that the white façade that had once been as shiny as a tile was now somewhat gray.
The driver in the novel ends up acting like this—he has come out of a narrow alley that has not yet recovered, and it has just finished a heavy rain of camellias outside, all over the ground, and the open-air stalls have not yet recovered from this heavy rain, and so have the guards of the fruit company, and the rare and rapid heavy rain has lazily snuggled their vigilance, and they are smoking in pairs at the door, stretching their waists, and the position of the guard is scattered by the rain. He easily found an opportunity to bypass the guards, staggered into the building, with a pistol he had bought from a black market merchant, and walked toward the place he knew and was unfamiliar to him, where he had sent him countless notices.
If you want to fully replicate the actions of the character in the novel to understand his behavior, then he should also avoid the doormen and security guards at this time and sneak in quietly. Sometimes, though, the point of understanding a situation is not on consistent action, but on grasping the key to it. The key to this plot is to "dive in". He wrote that novel on a Somalia, an African country he had never been to before (simply because the name sounded nice and glowed with blue sea colors). A village and town with fruit plantations as the main economy. And now he is in a modern city with buildings that are as high as the aviation buildings. Dive in— two definitions of the Modern Dictionary are "sneaking in; drilling into the water"—both focus on making yourself disappear into the other person's field of vision, so getting the other person to close their eyes and fall asleep is also a way to sneak in.
The outermost guard guards are left alone, they just maintain a visual dignity, and the people who come and go in and out of the shoe number coordination building every day come and go, they don't interrogate, they just stand there as human sculptures. At the beginning of the last century, when the world epidemic was severe, the doormen would also be responsible for measuring body temperature, checking the wearing of masks and health certificates, and now those love stories and death anecdotes that cannot be seen in the epidemic are dissipated in the past. What he needed to solve was the security guards who were actually patrolling inside, and the elevator clerks—trying to argue why a three-story building needed an elevator. The security guards patrolling the ground floor didn't have to be solved either, they didn't stare at the people who came in and asked any questions, they just wandered the halls to maintain some kind of unnecessary order. The key is the second floor, where the security guard will be wary of asking them who they are looking for if they see strangers, and at that time he will need to use his ability to get them into more than an hour of sleep.
This one is hard. When he went up to the second floor and actually bumped into the security guards—they were two people, two different people, just because they were in uniform, so they walked over like a pair of shadows. He needed to speak in front of four rolling eyes. The day before he had prepared this, "Hello—I want to ask how the bathroom goes, and it doesn't seem to have been found on the first floor..." When he first spoke, the faces of the two security guards were already drowsy, and by the time the two sentences were finished, they had fallen. But then they would wake up in a few minutes, and he had to go on. He began to narrate his gastrointestinal problems to two people who were already asleep. "Oh, I don't know why, I always have this kind of problem, the stomach is very unstable, suddenly it needs to be solved, sometimes when I go out, I will control myself not to eat something, but then I found that this has nothing to do with what I ate before going out ——""
He stopped suddenly. Because his mind popped up with the words that the reader asked him in the email—"For example, if the murderer in the novel did he eat waffles before going out, it mattered"—who was this reader? Is this really an unintentional casual question? Exactly what kind of reader will ask this sentence.
He had a shudder in his body, but now he had to go ahead with the assassination.
Originally, he thought that if he talked about the gastrointestinal conditions on his body and his medical history, he would be able to let the other party sleep for two hours. But when he finished speaking, he found that only ten minutes had passed, and he needed to talk for at least twenty minutes. So, he began to talk about himself, first expressing his apologies, "I'm sorry to let you sleep on the cold ground like this, but as soon as I opened my mouth, I really couldn't do anything", and then continued to talk about the emotional distress caused by this to himself.
He once found that the time the other party slept was not only related to the length of time he spoke, but also related to the content of his own speech, and the more emotionally engaged he spoke, the more the other party slept. He was actually reluctant to take the initiative to recall the history of the last relationship, because he really liked the girl very much, the two people had really lived together, and whenever he recalled this incident, a huge sense of loneliness and painful tearing spread over his body, and the real experience was torn apart by the illusion caused by time and more elusive and unshakable scars on him. He went on and on, saying that the pain and sorrow he felt had made him have no heart to do anything else—he knew where she was working now, and he wanted to hurry all the way to the nearby sweet shop and wait, just to look at her from a distance in the window—a layer of frosting sprinkled on his body—but when he finally finished speaking, he glanced at it, and the time had just passed twenty-two minutes. It was good, he thought to himself, that a person's unforgettable sorrow was turned into words, but the time to tell was less than half an hour. The two security guards had completely turned to stone and fell to the ground and fell asleep.
The more emotional the person speaking, the stiffer the listener becomes. This has happened to him more than a few dozen times. He adjusted his mental state for a moment, or continued to go to the third floor. After solving the first level of security, he was much more relaxed when he responded later, just repeating what he had just said. In the second and third narrations, emotions become simple words. In this way, he hypnotized a security guard on the third floor, an assistant standing in the hallway looking at his phone, and two characters who passed by who appeared to be public servants. Finally, he found the director's office and was about to enter the door.
Stills from the film Grasshopper, adapted from Kotaro Isaka's work.
With a "please come in," he pushed open the door and went inside. For the director's office, he had made many preparations and conjectures before, but none of them matched the actual scene that he was now seeing. The room was filled with the smell of sleep-inducing tea, the spines of a stuffed bookcase were all dark red, and the huge body sat across from him, watching him. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, the image in his mind would only appear in the novels of Latin American writers, the fat body that seems to have accumulated fat for thousands of years, and the naked eye can see that a circle of extra flesh is sliding along his chest, and finally wrapped around the belly into an oily rubber ring. Unlike the clear "please come in" sound—he even suspected that it was shouted out by other objects in the room—he didn't know where the man's eyes were looking. The director's eyes can be said to have or can be said not to be, which is a more exaggerated state of nothingness than half-open and half-closed. He couldn't see the gaze and the look in his eyes, but he could feel the presence strongly with intuition.
When he came in, the other party didn't say anything. Yes, leaders don't usually speak first, they have to wait for you to speak first — usually again before responding after asking again what you just said.
In the novel, the driver pulls out a pistol wrapped in a wild road silencer and pulls the trigger on the head of the chairman of the fruit company. Now, too, he has reached the final step.
He began to speak, to speak, and then, to find that his bullet seemed to have been shot into the grease, and the other party did not react at all. From the beginning, he couldn't tell whether the director was resting with his eyes open or closed, and now he couldn't tell whether the other person was awake or asleep, and even he was beginning to be unable to tell whether he was asleep or awake. The sound of cars starting can be heard outside the office's huge two-meter glass window. He looked at each other and knew he was falling into unpredictable failure.
What would the driver of the novel do if he were to encounter this situation—he is now asking for help with the characters he wrote. The difference is that the people in the novel will not encounter this situation at all, shooting the other person in the head with a pistol, and then the other party's body does not react at all, this kind of thing will not happen in the novel. In reality, however, anything is possible.
He felt that he could find an opportunity to withdraw. Whether the massive figure was awake or asleep, if he had been asleep, it would have been equivalent to the Assassin approaching the target to find that the target was already a corpse, so there was no need to carry out the task, and if he had been awake when he entered the door, he must have been asleep by now—he had not yet used his hand to speak to the other person to sleep. The thing that should have been done was done, and he turned around and prepared to go out. A blinding eye filled the room, and only the director's body was left with half-light and half-dark oil paint. At this moment, the body began to speak—
"You broke in and told me a bunch of your own emotional experiences, what the hell was you going to do."
The other party did not fall asleep. This was completely unexpected by the writer, who had listed the entire alphabet before planning the action, but did not think at all that he would drop the chain on the ability to induce people to sleep. He also prepared a small dagger to hide on his body in advance, in order to dress himself more like a murderer, but it was useless, and at this time he could not think of any other tools on his body. He fixed himself in place to look at the figure who didn't know where to make a sound. The Coordinator,who rules the Civic Shoe, does not speak with a human mouth, but with the skin of an amphibian breathing, he speaks with his body—not a part or skin of the body, but a shadowy silhouette of oil that has accumulated over thousands of years. Even if Chihiro broke into the curtain of Grandma Tang's office, the shock he produced would probably not be comparable to the situation at this time.
Screen from Spirited Away (2001).
Fortunately, he did not do anything, at most a citizen broke into the office and disrupted official business—the writer thought that he should now go up and apologize and prevaricate. The director should have called the police, and he should have been detained for ten days and half a month, which is not a serious crime that is difficult to forgive. He thought so, and walked over floor by floor.
When he finally approached, only a meter or so away from the other party, he finally saw clearly that his assassination could not have succeeded from the beginning. Neither asleep nor awake, he was speaking dreamily in a hazy state—including the inquiry he had just made. He does not fall asleep because of the words of the outside world, nor does he wake up because of them; all the words outside are separated by his groggy sleep, but they are not isolated, and his body produces some instinctive reactions in the vibrations of the sound waves, thus making plausible questions and answers in the boundless sleep. His eyes are not open, and he is staring at you, his words are unconscious, and they are related to consciousness, and what is even more frightening is that when the writer gets closer, he finds that this huge and gloomy grease object not far away is even somewhat translucent, which means that it is most likely not an entity, but an optical product formed by the convergence of eyes from time to time.
He was reluctant to observe any longer. After making sure that the other party did not realize the specific self, the writer immediately turned to open the door and pulled his leg away. The moment he walked out of the office door, even if he was still in the building, the writer felt his legs return steadily to the ground again. The bodies of the security guards and assistants were still lying on the ground and sleeping soundly, and no one was noticed for the time being. He took the stairs from the emergency exit out of the first floor. The outside environment is still like a dream, some are not very real, but fortunately protected by the logic of common sense. He breathed a sigh of relief and immediately got into a taxi home.
The moment he sat in the car door, he saw outside—the pedestrians flowing by the flower beds, the customers lining up at the door, the parents pulling their little children, the laughter, the sadness, the senselessness, the confusion, everything as usual, everything had nothing to do with the eerie sight he had seen in the building office a few minutes earlier, and he would not say, that people would not believe it, that people would fall asleep.
As for what the reader said, there was a lack of experience with the extremes of reality, so it was impossible to write a good novel.
No, he felt that he couldn't write any more novels.
Author| Miyako;
Editor| Nodon;
Liu Xiaofei, Cartographer |;
Proofreading | Fu Chunyan and Xue Jingning.