Joke Collection Website - Cold jokes - Novelist Aladdin
Novelist Aladdin
Soft pale yellow lumps, emitting a burst of astringent fragrance, are refreshing, lined with a plate of tomato slices, and the delicious and moist red discs are like shy and sexy lips, which makes people think.
You see, with a gentle pinch, a long wave of hair pours down from the dough, and the floral lantern skirt wants to bloom on the knee, and the soft face makes people want to kiss. But, my doll, what should you look like
"Oh, Aladdin, what did you do for everyone's breakfast? ! "Mom grabbed the doll and put it in the oven.
Alas, my doll, what do you look like? My doll is a real piece of bread now, but I'm still thinking about it.
I am a novelist. The hero in my book is Aladdin, and I use the pseudonym Aladdin.
I live in a big house. The furnishings in the room are luxurious and unobtrusive, even the corners are spotless. Outside the house is a carpet-like lawn, and there is plenty of fresh water to feed them every day. Through the long white water column sprayed on the lawn, my mother was half lying in the bright sunshine, enjoying the fresh air, and picked up the telephone receiver that rang Rinrin.
The road to the house is hidden under thick branches. Every morning is like a white tablecloth, generously inviting people coming and going.
But it's still a little early for dinner. To see my doll.
My doll is lying on the bed, kissing her hair and lips, stroking her soft body, and her response sounds like mumbling, like a white dream that I continue after getting up in the morning. Ah, beautiful beauty, your eyes, do you see me staring at you?
Everything here is shrouded in the morning light, full of depressed whispers. They are like the whispers of girls, which make people curious and difficult to rush forward, so they have to hold their breath and avoid them. Only the tender tomato slices closest to them can go forward and collect these sounds at will, making the surroundings quieter. Quiet morning, only the rustle of mom's phone.
At this time, my friend was standing in front of the food stall with a drink cup and absently picking eggplant: "No matter one, two or three, you, me and him, if you try to completely separate the relationship, as long as you are still alive, it is impossible." The most basic connection is at least "we" ... just like, you can't be sure that the eggplant you finally picked is absolutely perfect or absolutely satisfactory. "
It is not clear why he said this, whether it is negative or positive, whether it is reality or fiction, or what it means. I asked him to make it clear directly, otherwise it would be needless to say such specious words.
He was thoughtful, but seemed to have reservations: "Your name is Aladdin ... I know a man named Aladdin. He gave me a money to buy a lamp, and then cashed a castle with it. There is a beautiful princess in the castle. Oh. "
"I didn't play tricks," I blurted out, sounding eager to defend myself because his meaning was obvious. "Maybe you think that everything I have is directly related to my identity, surname, lineage and family (a word I hate to say). Of course, I can't completely deny it ... I will say what you want to hear eventually. Well, can we talk on an equal footing? "
His throat was slurred. He said, "Have you ever bought a drink from a vendor in this street? I suspect that you have drunk anything in the street, such as tea. There are many tea vendors. We stood here for three minutes and passed at least four tea vendors. Have you dealt with them? I don't think you even noticed Francois (bartender) ... how did those characters in your novel come from? "
He hardly dared to look at me when he said these words. His eyes passed through the crowd, through the fence, through the tangled branches and leaves, as if avoiding a net. He quickly evaded and shouted in a firm direction-using high-profile voice and body movements to attract busybodies to stop and find some substitutes to delay time. I followed, trying to find out, only to see my figure floating in the swaying shade of the road.
I couldn't stand up because of dizziness.
"Hey, if you don't have the courage to come in," Aladdin said on page 8 of the novel, "our story is over."
"Where to?"
"You saw the meteorite fall, but you didn't have the guts to go over and see what happened ..."
I didn't buy tea in the street. I passed the peddler and walked up the steps behind him. The process is short, but blinking becomes slow because of thinking.
Visualizing the thinking at this moment, we can see the bright gouache blue tree projected in the mixed dark brown and dark ink, making the blue tree live like a catfish.
I am like a tricolor glass bead embedded in a catfish beard.
It seems that my mind has become dull because of the near stagnation of time, and I have spent a lot of effort. I don't think I'm sure what I saw was really a trunk, not a branch with a thicker trunk. So, where to go next?
My brain, stuck in a stagnant state, fermented and expanded like dough. When I tried to speed up my thinking with my deformed head, a voice suddenly rushed up, as fast as a comet: "How can you understand human nature if you are so indifferent?"
Such an abrupt conclusion is easy to make people want to fight back, but it is not easy to fight back completely, beautifully and with good intentions in a hurry. I don't expect the other party to feel slapped after being attacked, and will be filled with irrefutable wisdom because of my response, so as to rebuild a peaceful atmosphere with the other party, whether sincerely or falsely.
This kind of response is very important for the other party to restore a benign image and is conducive to further exchanges between the two sides. However, in my heart, I don't value it so much. It should be like a dress that fits me quite well. I just reach for it.
I didn't make up any reason, and the other person's breath calmed down. Thank you for your time. I thought about it and said, well, let's talk calmly. You see, I thought that in this bright place, its background is like the sky behind Zeus, close to the mime set, and all its joys and sorrows come from the objects it sets off.
However, if you spend more time paying attention, you will find that the single color of the surface has not been frozen. Although they are content with the status quo (no matter what the status quo is), they do move slowly with almost static movements. It is not the light that makes the gouache tree look dynamic, but the inconspicuous scenery. Here I use an opposite vivid example to make a comparison.
Even the ginger slices bought from the supermarket have a little dirt between the roots, which is insignificant compared with the land where the ginger slices were born. This little mud is compared with the amount of exercise and the range of motion of the set.
This little bit of mud left a large area of land, or fell into the packaging bag, or was washed away. In this behavior, it disappeared in a blink of an eye, and the land may lose them forever.
This mud is very small, and the land will not become thinner and narrower without it. After at least ten years (only the amount of mud taken away by ginger slices is considered as the amount of sediment loss), the surface size will remain unchanged by visual inspection. That piece of land is like the biggest landscape in this area, so it can be understood that the moving amount and moving range of the landscape are really humble relative to its volume.
They have the largest area, but they are willing to "sacrifice" (let's just say so) to support a spokesperson-there is no doubt that this tree-like luminous body will appear only if they contribute their insignificant light.
Living in broad daylight, to some extent, is lazy or shirking responsibility. (I admit) I can't express my views completely and clearly. The changes produced by their actions are restrained and silent. Even if they feel a little uneasy or unhappy, they try to avoid showing them when they are surprised. Just like a sphincter who doesn't know that he can breathe in air and release it at will, he suddenly finds that cold river water flows into his stomach during a diving breath.
The light of the family is in sharp contrast with their darkness. No matter whether the light carries positive or negative, beautiful or ugly or miscellaneous, the person with the largest area is not qualified to speak. When they turned on the lights, they had already abstained.
This is my understanding of the "public" (that is, the dark side). They live in a cold temperature, and they instinctively understand that this is also a suitable temperature to protect themselves. Any so-called positive expression of "goodness" and "beauty" of "the masses" is because they have lost the right to make their own voices, and this right has long been abandoned forever. They just show the genetic distortion of suspicious words and deeds or unknown genes, and can't really say that "goodness" is really "beauty".
True and unadorned "beauty" is like looking straight into the eyes of pure black night. Whether fatigue produces hallucinations or finally waits until the light of the distant lost star comes is unknown. These scattered stars are neither dazzling nor attractive to anyone, and will not leave traces of nostalgia in anyone's heart. Most people prefer to blend into the dark side of a large area, giving off a faint luster and becoming a part of dark color. After all, following the majority is always considered the safest, and this choice ensures their high probability of reproducing.
When I extended this idea, I embarked on the road to the stone that fell from the sky. Passing through the hillside with criss-crossing branches, a huge stone stands on the top of the mountain like a question mark. I went in and sat down.
I'm not sure what I'm here for or what I can get. Close your eyes, the light is shrouded in darkness like a white gauze, and you can't see or hear it. Raise your hand slowly, and you seem to touch the desktop in the dark. Silence seems to be a snack on the table.
The midday sun leading to the doll's boudoir is neither a straight line nor a fan-shaped scattering projection, but it is as flexible as an octopus's wrist. Feminine beauty has the same attraction to it as meat bait, and sunlight permeates the room like ink sprayed by octopus, which reduces visibility.
After the tomato slices in the porcelain dish were exposed to the air for 3 hours, they hid their inner anxiety about "deterioration" and tried not to show their envy of the leisurely goldfish in the glass jar in the corner of the room. It pretended to inadvertently recite a fragment of the story of the fisherman and the golden fish and sighed: Yes, the free goldfish has such extraordinary ability.
In my novel, what is more cruel than minotaur is the beautiful princess.
The princess has a pair of innocent big eyes as bright as a doll, and the soft black curls grows to the crotch. She has no complaints about the king being imprisoned in a bronze palace, but she has a magical stubbornness that "freedom" determines the life of her pursuers.
In order to defend and show that she has the initiative of this right, she refuses the servant to approach and is not guided and manipulated by anyone's words and gestures. Since she was a child, she personally spun and twisted the thread, and then wound it into a ball. There was no manual hand involved in this meticulous work. There are no servants or guards in her palace. Without the long-term companionship of the marble statue of the faceless person, she is likely to lose her desire to speak.
With the help of the magician, she became the shadow of the pursuer, followed and cut the signs tied to the hole, whispered various fear scenes to them, instructed the wind to change the direction of their arrows, and even climbed into the shelter of the monster in the deepest cave to convey the message of betrayal.
"It's all because I love you, father," the princess didn't hide anything from the king. "I love your blackened bones and dry and sticky meat, and I love your rotten taste. Although those ghosts have climbed up from your white beard hanging down to Styx for thousands of times to stop me from kissing you, no one can stop my love. "
Who does that "who" mean, those ghosts, or magicians, or?
The princess said nothing. She faced the mummy full of bright jewels wholeheartedly. As she confessed, she faced up to her love and was innocent.
Novel, 37 pages.
Under the full moon, the dressed witch danced and danced, holding a drum in her right hand and throwing a bunch of golden grains obliquely downward in her left hand. Those golden lines symbolizing various wishes, desires and dreams drew a short arc in mid-air and disappeared in her reflection in the water.
Aladdin watched not far away.
I think this is a beautiful scene, but Aladdin doesn't think so: I don't know how I got here and appeared in this inexplicable place. You or your readers may think in your imagination, "Ah, what a beautiful and dreamy stage. This kind of scenery makes the senses really feel the rhythm of the temple and the graceful posture of the dancers coming from the water. "In fact, this strange accident seems to me like a hunter's shooting preparation and immediate goal. No matter how long this inexplicable process is, the protagonist's body and mind are prone to long-term unresolved fatigue.
Sure enough, until page 39 of the novel, Aladdin curled up in the lower right corner of the book. I pushed hard a few times but fell asleep, and then I almost stopped talking, as if to say: your grandfather Bruno died of suicide.
Hearing the news on the phone this morning, my mother downplayed it: he set himself many lofty goals and dreams, and this is one of them. Most of those lofty goals have not been achieved, and now he has finally achieved one.
Mother hung up the silent phone, poured herself a glass of wine, and then took a sip of cigarette.
Leaves and branches interweave to form the road to the residence. I parked my motorcycle in front of the house, took off my helmet and took a deep breath. My eyes rested on the sand in front of the door.
Ah, in retrospect, it seems that this pile of sand has been piled up in front of the door since childhood or earlier, so that the house can be built continuously. Why did you notice it now?
Although the house is luxuriously decorated, it has not been repeatedly decorated day after day and year after year. Maybe at first, its appearance is fresh and beautiful. Later, like an old woman who was addicted to grand dressing, she put on heavy and gorgeous accessories again and again, and her dark hands constantly powdered her bare skin. ...
Oh, no, maybe I didn't notice it, but I deliberately turned my attention to other places: the water column watering the lawn, the wind blowing through the Woods, and the wheels that the motorcycle started. ...
At this time, if I notice this unusual situation and ask: If there is no secret, why should I cover it up? You must open the door with an axe. Is the situation inside almost empty? A dim light hanging overhead is flickering, and the frightened figure of mother is reflected in a corner of the wall. ...
Say goodbye to your doll, crying will always stop. The plants in the glass bottle are just enjoying the false light, and they will never feel the real light unless they go out.
At noon, the sun is brighter or more restrained than earlier. The rickety motorcycle crossed several streets and was still in the open-air bar in that street. Five or seven people sat on wooden chairs, drinking and chatting. A friend stood on the side of the road and shook a cup, and the drink was spinning in the cup. More and more white foam sticks to the transparent glass wall. He stood there like a good advertisement. The nearest table is two.
"Aladdin," mother wiped away the tears soaked in eye shadow and pulled down the black veil on the brim, "help me cancel the order at this address, don't call, you go in person. Stop by and see your therapist. You made an appointment with him last week, so you don't have to go to the funeral. "
Mother then stepped out of the room, her black tight suit highlighted her enchanting figure, and she opened the door with sloping space without looking back. I don't think I remember making an appointment with a psychiatrist.
There is only one person in the cake shop.
Dude's cheeks are slender, and he looks as slender as an oleander leaf, with white skin, a white hat on his head and a white apron on his body. If it weren't for the two dark brown beards under his nose, it would be difficult to find him without careful identification.
He was incoherent, and his face showed a ray of congenital tension from time to time: "I didn't find the food you ordered, and other people in the store helped at the wedding reception." It's a big wedding cake, and someone must help it before it falls down. "
During the time when his words didn't reach my ears, I looked around the shop. The shop is almost empty, and there is a landscape photo hanging on the white wall on the left and right. Perhaps it is to stabilize the space and prevent customers from feeling inclined after entering the door. White people are leaning against the same white wall.
I don't want to stay any longer. I'm going to leave my phone number and leave.
"Please wait a moment, guest," the man pleaded with a red face. "The camera is facing us. If you leave like this, people will think that I am not welcome. Please stay a little longer. It won't take you long. Let me introduce the cake I made. There is only one cake. You just need to have a look. "
The man carefully held out a piece of white cream cake and walked on thin ice. The cake is covered with white chocolate chips. I took one look at it, and I didn't have the patience to be here, stop for a minute, or even some disgust.
This man is sensitive to my emotions. He blushed and stared at me with exaggerated eyes, and his tone became dry. "I'm in a hurry. I'll leave my phone number and let your people know when they come back. " I don't want to pretend to say I'm sorry or anything. On the one hand, I'm already a little angry (maybe I was in a bad mood), on the other hand, saying these kind words is likely to give the other party a chance to make demands that I can't meet.
The man bowed his head and seemed to give up the retention: "I'm sorry, I'll write down your request to cancel the order, and I'll call you again to confirm." I'm really sorry. "
The man's hanging head seems to widen the originally narrow storefront space, and the distance between us is very far away. The short silence caused a moderate depression in the air environment, and I felt a little uncomfortable, and the blood flow in my body was not very smooth. Maybe you have to let him talk, otherwise it will cause serious depression and no one will be comfortable. Thought.
I put on a more relaxed look. The man relaxed his tense nerves and said slowly, "I made the cake in the shape of a statue." Of course, their materials are very different. "
As he spoke, he gradually revealed some dissatisfaction: "I once aspired to be the most famous sculptor. When people praise and envy my talent, I have these frivolous ideas. But with the skill of carving technology, I can't accept this group image that can be expressed, touched, aroused and confined to my mind. This kind of' art' of course lays the foundation for people to see and then get people's understanding and appreciation. Because people can't see, no, people don't expect to see such works.
Not knowing or just vaguely understanding what he wants to express may reveal a little confusion. This guy who feels a little too much is ashamed. Yes, I was shocked by his sensitive nerves. He was ashamed and hid in a mouse hole in the corner. He himself became as big as a mouse hole and thinner.
I wanted to say something to him, but I didn't say it to him: his reaction was like a prisoner in a cage, and he also supported his body by this cage, otherwise he would only have a white skin.
A cage is a real cage if it is locked or never locked. Only in this environment, can we confidently forge or fall into the self-righteous truth, give up our former ideals, or sincerely yield to making "works of art" in the public interest.
Why should I waste my time on this fool, although it may not be used for more effective things. Maybe I have an iron fence in my chest, too. I endured the impact of a pair of fists clutching the fence, the violent shaking it kept urging, and the roar inside the fence. These, only my feet can't feel or hear, it stubbornly stands on the concrete floor, facing the snow-white man in the corner with expectation, and he looks at me piteously and stubbornly.
I'm at my wit's end myself, and there's nothing I can do about him.
It is said that in the end, after the garbage we made flooded the oceans and mountains, there was no place to live. The garbage that was previously silent like a skeleton quickly tore off the silent face, turned into an angry burning Dahlia, and roared at human beings.
I thought this joke would relax everyone present. They are really a little nervous. Judging from their expressions, their nerves are almost always in a state of tension. They are worried that the coffin will suddenly fall apart and that the priest will say the wrong eulogy. At this moment, they must be uneasy about my mental state.
"Get out." A completely unknown relative said seriously.
The door of the church closed behind me, and this is the tunnel of the station. It seems that a fat intestine is being filled, and the hand holding the wall is hesitant.
In this continuous winter, some buds seem to see the dead leaves covered with ancient yellow and grayish green at their feet. They come out from the branches and push away the dead branches to look out in despair. I guess at this time, they have no specific goals, and passers-by and vehicles in the past are indifferent to them. Except me, I was a little sentimental and stopped to stare at each other. It's a pity that they will be painted with ugly colors before Christmas. I am not allowed to stay at this moment. It's like pushing the camera and making me hug.
"Real things will stink in the end, so they are all smelly things." This is the last sentence of the joke, which was said by a loudspeaker in the flooded garbage dump. I insisted on telling the joke in my mind.
Passing by the garbage dump, I lifted one plastic bag after another, and the plastic bags surrounded me intimately, and even almost kissed my face. They used to wrap their heads in fresh bread and bury them in plump breasts. The warm body temperature continued to ferment the shy bread through the thin bag until Anubis tore the bread apart and stuffed it into his open mouth. His pale lips tightened his stiff face, and tears ran down his cheeks through black eye shadow, silently mourning the body buried in the coffin.
Before I reached out and pulled the switch, the dim flashing lights went out.
Nevertheless, I found the attic that my friend promised me to live in.
This place is very spacious. The wall divides it into rooms. There is no door, no glass on the window, and dust and dazzling sunlight rush in from the window frame. When I opened a door and put it on, it was quiet around, only my breathing. There are no secrets to hide here.
The last chapter of the novel is as expected.
The princess pushed the king away, handed the ball to the last suitor, and lifted her long skirt to prevent her slender feet from stepping on the guards sleeping on the ground. She gave the magician some money and asked him to give it to a man named Aladdin in exchange for the magic lamp he was wiping.
Will you believe the truth and never give up?
The truth is not the rain that falls in the collar behind the neck in winter, nor the sand that is blocked by the hot air. It is a sharp knife, inserted from the back of the head and cut to the heel. It hurts to death, but I can't see where the wound is.
No, that's not what I want to hear. You must be hiding something. By the way, playing music and soothing melodies can drive away powerful demons.
Did you hear that?
I can't hear you, but I know the movement is going on. The baton hit the oil drum like a nerve out of control, and the buzzing echo of the eardrum set off a higher flame; Mercury injected from urethra vibrates doors and windows in the form of gas through chrome eros tube, giving out the sound of crushing sand and stone; Red and lead fingers pluck the strings of the gold lira and let pure inert force penetrate the brick wall and pull everyone's shoulders back and forth. ...
The strong impact forced me to run up the high overpass quickly to avoid it. The strong support of the overpass connects from one end to the other. After standing to make sure I could hear my voice, I dialed a phone number, and there was an anxious inquiry from the other end of the phone, but the strenuous exercise made me breathless and unable to speak clearly.
Hey, hey, tell me, which one is you and which one do you want to be.
Novelist Bruno, statue Bruno, tramp Bruno, corpse Bruno, choose one, of course, you can refuse, then, there will be no sound bothering your ears and nerves, even in dreams, just like overlapping branches rejecting all the light in a more dense posture.
He was lying in the spacious VIP ward, holding his breath and counting down to release the rotten smell. I was there only when I didn't know him.
According to his previous gestures, he found a book-according to his relatives, it was the only book he published (only one was printed, or the other was missing), and it was also the only relic for his relatives.
This is a big book as thick as 100 1 page. The front cover and back cover are blank, and when you open them, you will see white paper. Read it carefully and find a passage on page 3 13:
I am eager for ways to make money: a castle, a pile of countless gold coins, and a magic lamp that is responsive. This is what I want most.
Now, I am thinking hard about a pile of white paper at my desk. My brain is almost exhausted and my body is as empty as a sack behind a beggar. This state lasted for three days. On the fourth morning, I don't know whether it is pity or love. The wind pushed open the window with morning dew that can nourish everything, lifted the curtain that had been closed for a long time, and gave me the power to move.
I straightened up and was surprised to find huge gorgeous butterflies living in the room. Their wing surfaces are blue, similar to the blue Morford. When they close their wings, they are sulfur-colored, and their wings are as big as palm leaves. If they dance, they may drown me in their flying scales.
It's beautiful. Even though I was afraid it might be poisonous, I couldn't help reaching out admiringly to catch a huge butterfly. Before my fingertips touched the edge of the butterfly's wings, suddenly, it raised its wings and shrank like an ordinary butterfly, and so did other butterflies in the room. They become a chain, just like a lady who loosens a necklace but doesn't hang it around her neck. This gorgeous necklace flew away from the window.
Fly away, all fly away, not one left. At this moment, I suddenly remembered what I read in a book about Aladdin: If you see a butterfly as big as a table, make a wish before it flies away, and your wish will come true. I missed my chance.
Look carefully again, only this page is printed with words, and there are piles of white paper before and after this page.
I don't know where I'm going, but I don't know when I climbed into my face. I don't know when I put my hand in my pocket for a long time but it didn't warm up, and my steps were slow, but I didn't know where I was. At this time, I may just sit on the ground or on the steps.
Time has passed for a long time. A tramp handed me his plastic sheet. He didn't speak with his mouth open with a missing tooth, and gestured with his fingers for a while. I said I didn't understand what he meant (I still have some ordinary people's consciousness-please forgive me, I think tramps are different from ordinary people because their lives are different, so I think they are different from ordinary people. Maybe he thinks I'm a prepared tramp. Give me what he thinks is useful. Of course it's not for nothing. I must pay what he asks. No, that's it. And I don't want to talk about it, either for myself or for him. Of course, I just refuse.
The tall and fat middle-aged man looks a little sad. His mouth wriggled, keeping his waist bent, and his arm paddled down gently. I don't know whether I should refuse the deal or feel sorry for the plastic piece I put down (I didn't want it at all, so I sideways motioned for him to take it back). His fingers touched the plastic sheet, hesitated, straightened up and staggered away without looking at me again.
This gray-green plastic piece, under my long gaze, can't tell whether it is gray or green, but I'm sure it used to be a brand-new face, either gray or green. I opened it and found that the stormy days didn't completely make it stiff, but it was still soft inside, and the whole cloth was just enough for me to lie down.
Ah, the son of God hanging on the cross with a jingguan, when his blood flowed from his body along the wooden frame to the ground, he was exhausted and longed to leave every second, that is, the last second. He might also be eager to lie down and stretch his tired body and mind, even if it was a piece of dirty linen with the smell of corpses, lying flat on the ground.
I am not as determined as Aladdin.
The upright young man vowed to get rid of the evil woman. When he polished the magic lamp he bought with a sum of money, he ordered the giant to fly away with the castle and live with the princess who looks like a doll forever.
Today, I looked in the mirror as usual. To be exact, whenever I face an object that can reflect an image, I can't help but pay attention. Frequent "looking in the mirror" is not because I am narcissistic or inferior to my appearance, nor because I am morbidly dependent on the mirror. I'm not sure whether the image in the mirror is 30%, 75% or 82%. The "truth" I ask must be stripped of subjectivity, self-suggestion, external influence, other additional abilities besides the basic function of the mirror and so on. After filtering these, how similar can they be to the images I see or know from ordinary mirrors?
Despite my great success in business-the publisher promised readers that they would "succeed" as long as they read my book, so readers eager for "success" flocked to buy my book, which was once out of stock and reprinted many times. I don't know or care whether these book buyers are successful. But I think I am a failed novelist.
A successful novelist should build a logically self-consistent world, which is both a mirror image of the real world and a revised photo. He should also enter the characters he created, convey their joys and sorrows, even incarnate as them, immerse himself in the world he created, and know how to get out in time so as not to let them interfere with his life.
On the contrary, the world I built seems absurd to me, fragmented and not connected with any logical chain. Of course, readers don't think so. According to the advertisement, they said my novel was like a beautiful Turkish carpet. They don't know that most of the time I am completely separated from the characters in my novels. I'm not sorry for killing them. I gave them some good luck, but I only sneered at them. But I often stare at their blurred faces on the pages, touch them with my fingers and touch them with my palms. Over time, I feel that they have gradually risen from the pages and come to me. I shook my body to get rid of them, but I couldn't get rid of them.
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