This sentence is engraved on a sword. The owner of the sword is Caesar Borgia, who was born in 1476 and died in 1507. Wind and roses, and poison. This noble son from an ancient aristocratic family in Spain, who was known as "the most handsome man in Europe" at the time, was disfigured by syphilis due to syphilis. The calm and cold eyes behind the mask stared at the great and strange man who gave birth to him. era. During the Renaissance, the snobbish, vulgar and powerful bourgeoisie awakened the Greek gods and began their own history of tying the world with money. Everyone else also stumbled with their swords, cutting through the transparent film that God had shielded the world from, and began their own The history of independence is built on the real ruins of a void, including Caesar Borgia, the famous Duke of Valentino. Caesar Borgia, the illegitimate son of Pope Alexander VI, who was known for his power play and indulgence in history. He was a graduate of the University of Pisa who studied law, anthropology and theology. He was granted the title of Valentino by Louis XII. The estate, who was the cousin-in-law of Louis XII and brother-in-law of King Navarre, became the master and ruler of most of Italy before the end of his short life at the age of 32. He is the much-respected prototype of an outstanding monarch in Machiavelli's "The Prince". His sister Lucretia was the most famous and talented beauty at the end of the 15th century. She was also infamous and was publicly called "the pope's wife and daughter" by Italians. and daughter-in-law", and Caesar Borgia killed his other brother Giovanni for the sake of this sister who also made him fall into an affair, because the younger brother was also a love rival. In 1498, Giovanni was stabbed six times and his body was fished out of the Tiber River. Before his death, he probably did not worry that he would end up like the men of Lucrecia. He killed his brother for women, and his brother for power. Because he held the position of flag officer of the Holy See and the highest military commander, his eldest brother, the Duke of Gandia, like the lords, bishops and opponents, did not escape his sword and poison. Only that colorful, indulgent and elegant era could produce this Poison Duke; and only this Caesar could use bloody conspiracy, ambition, talent, courage, passion and cold gloom to wash away the era in which he lived, like a poisonous The dazzling and beautiful flower of evil was born in the clear and fresh air, and changed the night sky of Italian cities with its fragrance and poison. The educated man used barbarism, cruelty and despicability to destroy all the civilization and civilization that were full of bookishness and femininity. Virtue, trample on them mercilessly, let them make the most authentic sound. In 1503, Caesar and his father were poisoned at the same time. His father died unexpectedly, but he survived by chance. What followed was that all the great achievements he had just established fell apart in an instant. Duke Valentino lost his territory, rebelled against his relatives, and was forced to take refuge with his wife's uncle, King Navarre. I won't talk about other things. What I'm talking about is that in the dark swamp of 1507, those many spears came from Caesar Bor. What Jiya had stabbed in his back could only be said to be that at that moment, the world could no longer accommodate him and he had to die. The above is my clumsy narration of the life of Duke Valentino. As I write this, I listen to intense music, and suddenly a mobile phone advertisement I saw when I was a child flashes in my mind. The picture shows a handsome and cheerful young man with a slight mustache. , with a lonely expression among many men and women, the voice-over in the background is Cao Cao's poem "Like the morning dew, the past days are more bitter." I knew I would never see that ad again. It disappeared among the Coke, fast food and condoms produced by the assembly line. I remember there was another advertisement that left a deep impression on me. It showed two men holding guns at each other, while a beautiful woman's tears flowed down along with the dewdrops from her roses. I also know that I will never see that ad again, drowned in the same stench of sameness and lies. For countless lonely nights, I watched the empty sky and quiet air of my old home. I had no words for the world without Caesar Borgia. Yes, modern times are full of hustle and bustle, and the over-indulgent body is like plastic. Artifacts, engraved with the symbols of discipline and administration, succumb to lies and toil during the day. Many characters have disappeared, and even if they have left traces of traces, they have been formatted and raped beyond recognition by various theories that advocate leveling and uniformity. They have become another symbol or fashion that has been assembled by mediocre people. into the era of flat consumerism. The wheel marks left by the car driving on the road are like the scar on D'Annunzio's forehead, another stab wound left by another Italian who almost died in a duel due to jealousy. It is the aftertaste of Duke Valentino's romance, right? Increasingly blurry, obscured by the warm and happy din of a modern KFC chain fried chicken restaurant. Like most people, I eat ready-to-eat packaged food full of fashionable lies, immerse myself in working in the neat and narrow stalls of the corresponding industrialized assembly work, and eat from the same neat and orderly narrow stalls. The chicken wings and chicken thighs inside are accompanied by a simple ease and loneliness that only reaches the surface. I am happy when my nerves are anesthetized, and I am lonely when I stand alone at a high place and light a cigarette. The river of the past turned back and forth thousands of times and then stopped in my body and immediately disappeared into nothing, which made me realize many years later how ridiculous the so-called tracing of personal history is.

What does your own personal life history mean? The world is densely covered with

railways, highways and flight routes, countless days and nights, autumn and winter cycles, I live in a corner, a drop in the ocean, calmly chewing beef offal skewers on a certain street corner, usually with an apple peeler Table knife, watch the digital image of blood spurting out when a highly simulated sharp blade cuts into flesh in the cinema. Rather than being a Caesar, I would rather be nothing. This sentence is very good. Many things are actually not contradictory. Many specious phenomena are covered with the poison of lies. Reality is defined by various boiled water viewpoints and theories that are endlessly debated. It has become so real and realistic. It is We have cowardly and self-deceptively defined the world and its reflections, habitually accept it, and speak with ulterior motives. Bloody killings taking place in a bright spring moment will reveal the true nature of the world. I don't want to and cannot think too much about it. I fall asleep peacefully every white night and go to work habitually the next morning. But isn't it? Moments and places that feel absurd are everywhere, like a vast lake drowning us, making us like floating puppets, reading beautifully decorated magazines and wandering around on the Internet after dinner. One day in 2011, I wrote these words out of my impetuous thoughts and the music playing in my earbuds. There is no Lucretia in the world, only countless replaceable women and their healthy and fertile bodies are left. They are powerless animal thoughts and passions, criss-crossing with coins in the bright and dark subway. I was wearing a tights, and my body was covered with many scars left by encounters with various women. When the weather was cloudy and rainy, there would be a dull pain. The scars were left behind due to emotional bondage, possession, and hatred. But while I was tired, I felt an inexplicable joy, because they also had scars and pain on rainy days. Their husbands and lovers could not change this fact. Rather than being a Caesar, I would rather be nothing.

History is written by the victors, and the historical birthmarks engraved on our bodies are a mixture of bloody cruelty and conspiracy. Putting an inner lens into our bodies, we will see faces twisted with smiles amidst countless swords and poisons. We will see the intertwined and folded flesh in dark castles and faint city sewers. When the light beams of matter are concentrated at a certain place, we will see sex. The climax of carnival and loneliness is accompanied by the screams of all the plants in the disappearing African jungle. Plants also feel pain, but other creatures cannot hear their cries. Let us take the genitals out from between a woman's legs and sit calmly alone in a corner to think about it. One of the paradoxes is that human beings cannot eat inorganic substances to maintain life. They must be extremely hypocritical to escape the bloody killings among the illusions of delicious food. They must make up various myths, legends, traditions and histories to deceive themselves in order to sleep peacefully. The entire civilization on earth, regardless of skin color, is the self-recording and embellishment of murderous criminals. All philosophy, history, science, art and their countless dead or alive archives are crimes. What must be faced is that, This crime is the most basic natural behavior. Without committing crimes, human beings cannot live and survive. A basic fact is that lions in nature completely blindly follow the inevitable and blind laws of nature, and do not consciously control killing in order to maintain the ecological balance and survive better; and where humans go beyond nature, they use modern methods to kill animals. Thoughts, computing machines and so-called civilization, to elegantly maintain the ecological balance of killing and rape. Seeing the elegant skirts of women, we should not forget the dagger pinned to the outside of their thighs. This dagger is a sharp weapon made by humans. The difference between it and men is that they do not blatantly walk around with guns like men, and have the words "justice" and "justice" attached on them. Various historical and cultural explanations indicate that this dagger was, is and will always be stained with the blood of animals and humans. Rather than being a Caesar, I would rather be nothing. In the modern streets, restaurants and cinemas are the remnants after the whistling of Caesar Borgia's sword, and the shadows of the spears pierced on his back. They are realistic but extremely unreal, and the rest is inferior. The ring Lucrezia wore concealed the cantarella poison, a bad poison that was not real and made us weak. Not for Caesar, rather for nothingness. The prototype has disappeared in the vast archives after the Renaissance. Fire and sword, lust and killing, reputation and immortality have all been abandoned and thrown into the modern brothel bathroom with warm and soft jade. , then rinse it clean with a gallon of water. I once fell into books and speculation and couldn't extricate myself. I once wandered on the edge of many cities and villages, like a lonely beast in the jungle, passing through various pornographic and violent symbols, all of which were absurd and wrong. In the open space of a university college in the south, I once saw a sexy and beautiful girl, with her long and plump thighs exposed outside her shorts and exposed to the hot southern sun, riding a small toy motorcycle that I had never seen before. Playing with the car is the hearty laughter and the clear sound of fuel burning. She was followed by a young man, also riding the same fashionable machine. I looked at it for a long time, and at the same time, I calmly told myself that the sword, poison, and loneliness in the eyes of this female college student will most likely be behind her in the near future. Her husband's handsome young man was whittled away and obliterated, becoming a warm body in the bed and a numb machine in the kitchen.

It's nothing, it doesn't matter, it should even have a vicious pleasure, who cares? The stench of daily life rotting in the swamp, the smell of the mediocre chicken coop, the body of Caesar who died in the swamp has long disappeared, a world without Duke Valentino, what I hear in my ears is The sad, sharp and hoarse music reminds me of countless crazy nights in bars ruined by crazy minds. Rather than being a Caesar, I would rather be nothing. I think, if necessary, Caesar Borgia would kill his father. For the power, fame and love of his sister, and the otherworldly and immortal, the restless soul behind the cold mask would kill Alexander VI. His head is hung on a picket in a gloomy city square in Italy. Complex and extreme emotions, his father, his family, with the Renaissance as the stage background, this may be the love and hate of the most unprecedented family in the world. The revenge is the extremely gorgeous and vicious plant flowers, with unprecedented brilliance and temperament. The Greek gods are drinking and laughing loudly in this garden of nothingness, and the sound of swords and iron chains in the shadows is deafening. Rather than being a Caesar, I would rather be nothing. I want to write this article into a stirring movement. Under the narrow and polluted sky in the south, in the small room of my old home where the breath of my ancestors echoes, reason is sexual impotence and frigidity, so I can only use these messy words. To barely express. The world and daily life, the gaze of paranoia and schizophrenia, either transcendent or humble, passing over the subtle traps and sweet lies, the rotten stench of the sewers in the neighborhood is heard, it is the ordinary funeral of lost courage, hastily Let’s say a few words of innocuous and hypocritical eulogy. Intimacy, sensual gratification, timid vanity, art and drugs, travel pastimes and fashionable clothes, all become natural and sinister narcotics to relieve the emptiness of fatigue and disappointment after our daily lifeless toil. Various cultural histories or cultural arts are actually the echo of the swords of each nation or individual's battles, or the self-comfort of depression after failure, the gorgeous and dirty movement of genetic struggle, and the poison of mutual conspiracy. There is no other truth, it must be acknowledged. But that is what happened in the past. Now there are only cowardly conspiracies and dog-fighting. The bourgeoisie, full of the smell of copper, controls the whole world. It once had heroic spirit and turned the world over, but it was finally defeated by its own incurable power. Salvation and destiny are ruined by the philistine, mediocre and arty, looking for the so-called historical laws in the absence of contingency, futile jokes and weak self-narcosis, middle-class passion and adultery. There are also mobs and mobs like a plague of locusts, chattering and clamoring with all kinds of declarations or fake theories full of jealousy, cowardice and claims of equality and happiness. In fact, they are rustic greed and corruption, in the name of high-sounding justice. In the name of his own country, he engaged in self-enrichment and self-enhancement. Under the rubble and rocks, the last nobleman disappeared into the void of time. I know about the decadence of aristocrats, but this flat and powerless world filled with fried chicken wings and prostitutes just lacks that kind of aristocratic spirit. Caesar Borgia is dead, killed by a cowardly spear. Now, the conspiracy is the same. Yes, but less courage, passion and spirit. All the past history, the history organized in my own mind, all the imaginations and lingering lingering thoughts are just my despair and powerless madness and wantonness in my daydreams. After the holidays, I will go to work neatly dressed and work step by step like everyone else, with the disgusting complacency, the anesthesia of spring flowers, autumn moon, and Tang and Song poetry. Depression, the depressed water glass is always trying in vain to break on the hard concrete floor. In the illusion weaved intentionally or unintentionally, and accidentally in the roar and noise of the plane, I see a figure holding a sword rushing past, Exciting music and passion, outdated cloaks neighing in the wind, falling into the trap of language. Rather than being a Caesar, I would rather be nothing.