I.
I’ve lived this kind of hundred-day life twenty-seven times. I remember it very clearly.
Many people’s lives have a limit; they’re one long book of qin scores, with spring nights and autumn winds, with birth and age and illness and death.
I’m not like that.
My time shackles me, and it also overlooks me — from March 2016 to June 2016, I’ve been continually looping through time. I’m waiting for someone. His name is He Zhi.
II.
I’m called Ji Mao, English name Jimmy. It sounds like the name of a hair stylist, and I actually am a hair stylist.
March 1, 2016, at 7:37am, the one who sleeps on the top bunk, Danny, will be next to my bed, pushing on my shoulder and telling me, “Chicken feathers, time to get up for work.”
I really don’t like other people calling me chicken feathers.
Although there is no way of knowing, I can guarantee that Ji Mao exercised too much on February 28th, so that’s why my entire body aches when waking up on March 1st. Every time I’m woken up by Danny, I can’t help but say, “Fuck, it’s too early.”
Tonight at 8:19pm, He Zhi will come to the hair salon where I work.
On deliberate choice on the author’s part.
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