The "thread ball" is still wild and hard to change, keeping the habit of living at both ends of the corner trash can and our house, going back and forth regularly between two points and one line, snoring at the end of our bed on Friday and Saturday, emitting the fragrance of shower gel all over (responsible for bathing and disinfecting it every day), and leaving the apartment on time with its tail between its legs like an office worker on Monday. When night falls, calling friends, meowing spring, even if it is wandering on the garbage and filth everywhere, there is still a feeling of enjoying it. There was a time when you could hear a group of cats calling one after another in the middle of the night downstairs. The neighborhood committee organized manpower to rectify all the places where cats could hide in the neighborhood, especially the garbage cans. As expected, there were fewer wild cats, but the thread ball was still alive and well in this neighborhood. Seemed to have the unusual ability to escape any doom, the destiny is also great, occasionally will bring a male cat back for the night, we guess if there is a "cat gang", the thread ball may be a female gang leader,4 person jacuzzi, can spoil any male cat in the gang. I, on the other hand, began to fall into a writing paralysis, with about 50000 words to go before the end of the novel, but my brain was empty, as if all the imagination, intelligence and fire had leaked out of two ear holes overnight. The writing is smelly and astringent, writing and tearing, simply throwing the ballpoint pen into the waste basket, even speaking some stutter. Whether on the phone or chatting with Tiantian, I try to avoid using adjectives, subject + predicate + object, or imperative sentences, such as "Don't comfort me, please torture me". Tiantian hid in another room and concentrated on drawing illustrations for the temporarily collapsed novel in my hand. He stayed in the room most of the time, and when I was worried by some guess and suddenly pushed the door in, I didn't smell the unusual smell in the air, nor did I see him do anything unusual. After he came back from rehab, I cleaned the house carefully, spent the morning checking every corner for marijuana or other suspicious objects, and made sure there were no more traces of the past in the house, I built a sense of security around us. He was in a pile of paint, like Leonardo Da Vinci, looking for the true face of things in the chaotic world. Like Adam in the apple orchard, he works the miracle of love with his ribs. There's nothing I can do. I think I'm going to die. I have no passion or inspiration. I may be an ordinary girl who suffers from the delusion of writing a book to be famous. I said weakly, looking at the beautiful pictures spread out on the table, and feeling really sad that I had to live up to his love and my dream. You won't. Without raising his head, he said, "You