Who is at the third corner of Yelinpati Street? The full text of.

All the broken words collided softly when the half-bonesetter's lips rubbed against the floor, and his broken body was dismembered into bones and meat. His polygonal broken heart was picked up by the scavengers on Yelinputi Avenue and sent to the ingenuity shop in exchange for something precious to him. Ingenious practitioners melt a heart with drained soup, knead it into a complete shape and sell it at a high price. Wandering artists beat her collarbone with their fingers full of flowers, making her sing the voice of the poet whispering and rapping at midnight when the solidified dark elements are blooming. In fact, she is playing a sad love song.

Dismantle bone

I used to open my chest with my nails, take out a perfect heart, watch veins and arteries crisscross each other, and appreciate the consternation on everyone's face. I'm a circus bonesetter. My daily job is to divide myself into many pieces with different irregular geometries. I washed my twenty-four ribs in the street. Pull them out one by one, and wipe the clavicle and tibia with cotton cloth soaked in medicine, from tiny to soft ear bones, which are the only flexible bones in the human body. I often wonder if everyone likes to listen to warm words, because these little bones are at work.

There is a whole row of banyan trees on Bodhi Avenue in Yelin. The lines on the trunk are like eyes, watching everyone pretend to have no bad feelings. Everyone is pretending. Pretend to cry and pretend to laugh. Pretend to eat and pretend to sleep. Pretend to be silent, pretend to be noisy, pretend to love deeply, pretend to hold your hand and grow old with your son. They pretended to be calm. When I smashed plexiglass with my collarbone, the fragments in the sun were like hearts that no one could put together, reflecting faces so scared, so shocked and so surprised. Then, applause. Then, I pinched my shoulder blades, whistled and finished with a smile.

In the middle of the night, at the third intersection of Yelinpati Avenue, I met a wandering artist playing collarbone, and she would laugh. This is the most heartless smile I have ever seen. Her fingernails are full of flowers, and her juice smells rotten, just like a gypsy woman, except that she divines with notes. I often wonder what a determined woman she is, covering the gap between her nails with flowers and filling the huge hole in her heart with a smile.

I stuffed the money into the silk basket in front of her, and she stopped playing, avoiding the sound and touching my hands, shoulders and shoulder straps. After the performance, I found that the potion was used up, so I had to wrap my collarbone with plastic wrap and put it in my backpack. She said, sir, can I play your collarbone? I had to turn and run away. I'm afraid she will scream in the face of her bloody body without collarbone when she mentions the trench coat.

I accidentally hung the earrings of the wandering artist on my backpack. Five white roses make a silver circle, which is the color of the flowers embedded in her finger. I took off my petals and carefully soaked them in formalin, just as I often kept my injured tibia so that it wouldn't fade. Then, I wore a silver metal earring on my clavicle. When I was walking, the metal collided with my collarbone and made a wonderful sound. I don't know if that is the so-called love. But I found that I no longer use the ingenuity shop in the north of the city to buy a big bottle of smile.

Then she disappeared. A few nights later, she asked one by one on Yelinputi Avenue if anyone had a perfect heart for her, and she played the most beautiful music with her collarbone. She is so stupid. She doesn't know what a perfect mind is. Scared everyone away. She squatted on the ground and looked at her toes. Tears fell on the floor and evaporated with a faint blue color. Her eye socket and collarbone are deeply sunken, and she can no longer play a wonderful timbre. But why, like a broken toe, I began to feel pain all over.

So I cut my chest with a surgical knife in front of her and took out my beating heart. Like countless performances. She opened her eyes wide, and her stunned expression was reflected on my scalpel.

"Don't cry. Give me a smile. " I say this.

She listened to me unconsciously. When she readjusted the radian of her smile, the blue tears still hung on her lips, unable to bear the weight, and finally fell to the ground.

"Do you have a perfect heart?" She raised her eyelashes and looked straight at me.

"Well, I have." I gave her the heart that was still moving.

"Give it to me, will you?" She asked cautiously.

"... hmm ..." I hesitated, but I couldn't refuse.

"No ... it doesn't matter ..."

"It doesn't matter, there will be another one in the same position." I replied, pointing to my empty heart.

"Thank you." The small broken petals between her long hair fell on my palm, and then she turned and left.

Lies If my heart leaves me for an hour, I will die. How can it grow back in the same place? There is always only one heart. I can't separate my whole heart like a bone. I will die. But if that desperate light blue comes into my sight again, I will die, too.

At the third corner of Yelinpati Avenue, I sat where she used to play the clavicle, trying to sew up the tear in my chest. I tried my best to recall her dark brown hair with small broken petals, cornflower-like blue pupils and blue tears, and fingers embedded with flowers, all of which solidified in front of my eyes and then became a complete her, like frames of rough and moldy film. But she didn't have the strength to pick up the knife and dig out the earrings hidden on her collarbone, leaving only a small piece of bone between her neck.

How should tomorrow's newspaper describe a dead osteopath? I don't know ...

Collect odds and ends (to survive)

When he was a scavenger, he picked up the sad and happy fragments randomly discarded in every corner of the city and put them in his backpack. He always wanted a puzzle, a complete puzzle of happiness, sadness, joy and despair. He wants to know what color and shape it is. He thinks it must be the most perfect work of art. Scavengers dilute them into tears with seawater and rain, stick the pieces together, and repeat the same work every day.