I have done city trips several times, and each time I have some interesting discoveries, which I have also told my friends.
These days of city trips have made me realize that my previous city trips were only spinning around the edges and vignetting corners of the city. I have never really entered the heart of the city to interpret it. The crowding here is a hundred times or ten times greater than its edges and vignetting corners. Times, the perfection and prosperity here are also a hundred times, ten times that of its edges and dark corners. Here, it is carried out incisively and vividly on both sides.
However, it was my previous faint turn on the fringe and dark corner of the city, and I knew what it was that fed the prosperous and indispensable life of the city.
In the fringes and dark corners of the city live such a group of "night watchmen." They are like spiders, living in the darkest darkness, they are like earthworms, living in the wettest dampness, but they have all been up and down the skyscrapers in the city, building blocks of red bricks, one by one. installation
Inside and out, pieces of porcelain were pasted, and spoonfuls of powder were painted. Even the most star-rated restaurants, how can they stand upright without them, and pretend to be cold and disdainful of other things? Even the most dazzling lanterns, how can they light up one by one without them, and winking a thick eyebrow with disdain for the night? Even if it is the widest road, how can it flow without them, and even look happy and forget the reason.
They are like old fathers who spend half their lives building villas for their sons, but they are driven out to live in the cowshed after they are built; they are like worker bees who have toiled through the forest to make honey all their lives, but they can’t make honey. Get a drop, and finally fly away from the hive and die silently
They are like poor peasants who work hard for the landlords year after year, but in the end they eat the chaff and ears. An abandoned old factory is their best home, an abandoned artifact is their best furniture, and a broken door is their bed at night.
The best thing for their children is that the gate of the factory has been trampled on by so many people who are still stained with oily sand. Their children walk barefoot on the ruins of broken walls full of nails and iron all day long. The immature ones don’t even have it. I have heard a beautiful fairy tale, a wonderful story, and only live in the days without tomorrow.
And all this is going on without stopping in the city's indifference.