Chapter 262:

…"I'm sorry," he said silently. This is infinitely pathetic. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He looked away, looking away from her.
She was certain that she must be almost at the top of the stairs, her feet still stomping on the air, doing her best, the faces of travelers above, below and on each side. But she could very vaguely see the outline of the door and the wooden boards and beams of the room where Simon was lying. From head to toe, he is now a mass of blood. She could see his torso, face, every mark on his limbs, painful hieroglyphs. For a moment, he seemed to flash a focus, she could see him in the empty room, the sunlight through the window, and the broken jug beside him. Then her concentration will be shaken, and instead, she will see the invisible world become visible. When they write to him from all sides, he will hang in the air, pulling out the hair on his head and body to clean up Full page,
Only the wound is the same between the two attractions. Whether she saw him being bothered by the author or alone in the room, he was bleeding and bleeding.
She is at the door now. She stretched out her trembling hand, and felt the solid reality of the handle, but even if she concentrated all her attention, it would not be clear. Although enough, she has almost no ghosts to concentrate. She held the handle, turned it, and shook the door of the writing room. He was there, in front of her. The separated air does not exceed two or three yards. Their eyes met again, and the eloquent expression shared by the world of life and death passed between them. The expression and love are full of compassion. The novel is gone, the lies are dust. The real sweetness replaced the boy's manipulative smile-answering on her face.
The deceased was afraid of this expression and turned his head. Their faces tightened, as if the skin was spreading on the bones, their flesh turned black and bruised, and their voices became eager for the failure of anticipation. She reached out to touch him, no longer needed to be in groups with the dead. They fell from each side of the quarry, like dying flies from windows.
She gently stroked his face. Touch is a blessing. Tears filled his eyes, bleeding down his bruised cheek.
The deceased now has no voice or even a mouth. They got lost along the highway, and their malice was cursed. The plane rebuilt its own room side by side. The floor was under his crying body, every nail, every dirty wooden board was visible. The windows are clearly visible-the noise of children echoing outside the streets of Twilight. The highway completely disappeared from people's sight. Its travelers turned their faces into darkness, forgot, and only left their logos and amulets in the concrete world. On the middle level of Highway 65, RegFuller smoked, and the bubbling body was trampled by travelers' feet as it crossed the intersection. Fuller's soul finally passed through the crowd, looking down at the body he once occupied, before the crowd forced him to make a judgment. Upstairs, in the darker room, Maisha Florescu knelt next to the McNeill boy and stroked his blood-stained head. She didn't want to leave the house to ask for help until she was sure that his tormentor would not return.
There was no sound now, but the groan of a jet plane found morning in the stratosphere. Even the boy's breathing is quiet and regular. No light surrounds him. Same thing. Sight. sound. touch.
touch.
Now, she touched him, because she never dared to take a risk, and gently brushed her fingertips on his body, hehe, the fingers slid across the raised skin, just like a woman reading braille. There are countless words on every millimeter of his body, written with a lot of handwriting. Even through the blood, she could discern the meticulous way the words were wrapped in his heart. She can even read an accidental phrase in the dim light. There is no doubt that this is a proof that she hoped, oh god, how she hoped that she did not get it. However, after a lifetime of waiting, here is: a life revelation that transcends the flesh written by the flesh itself.
This boy will survive, it is clear. The blood has dried up and countless wounds have healed. After all, he is healthy and strong: there will be no fundamental physical harm. Of course, his beauty disappeared forever. From now on, he will be an object of curiosity at best, and an object of disgust and fear at worst. But she will protect him, and he will learn how to know and trust her in time. Their hearts are inseparable.
After a while, when the words on his body are ab and scarred, she will read him. She will follow the deceased's account of him with infinite love and patience.
Beautiful cursive stories are written on the abdomen. The exquisite, elegant testimony covered his face and scalp. The story on his back, calf, and hands.
She would read all, report all, every last syllable gleamed under her adoring fingers, and seeped into it, so that the world would know the story of the dead.
He is a blood book, and she is his only translator.
When night fell, she put down her vigilance and led him into the warm night naked.
Then there is the story written in the blood book. Read it and if it satisfies you, please study.
They are maps of the dark highway leading to unknown destinations. Few people will accept it.
Most people will walk along the brightly lit streets and parallels, standing out from prayer and caress. But for a few people, the terror will come, skip them and take them to the highway.
Read it like this. Read and learn.
After all, it is best to prepare for the worst, and it is wise to learn to walk before respiratory failure.
Li Bai is no longer a newbie in this city. In his innocent days, he always called it "the palace of joy". But that was when he lived in Atlanta, and New York was still a promised land, where everything was possible.
Now Li Huai has lived in his dream city for three and a half months, and the Palace of Joy does not seem so pleasant.
He walked out of the Port Authority bus station, looked up at 42nd Street, and walked towards Broadway intersection. Is there really only one season? Lost so many precious fantasy in such a short time.
Now he was embarrassed even thinking of his innocence. This made him cringe, recalled his position and announced loudly: "New York, I love you."
Love? never.
Infatuation at best.
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