2013年的5月,我决定养一只猫。它不一定要很漂亮,有像绽开的华盖一样毛茸茸的尾巴,也不一定要会眯缝着眼睛,像在摇篮中沉睡的婴儿,阳光稀稀落落地掉进它的眼睛,手指摇晃着,好像要顽皮地逮住这缕光线。它只是一只小小的动物而已,一只小小的,如果离开我,就无法独立生活下去的柔软的小肉团。后来,它来了,它满足了我所有的幻想,对一只猫的幻想。十七八岁,写第一篇小说《城市中的最后一只猫》,那时甚至对猫都只是在意淫,像电影《猫女》,轻巧地跳上墙沿,像用脚垫弹钢琴一 In May 2013, I decided to raise a cat. It does not have to be pretty, like a furry canopy like a blooming canopy, nor need to be squinted, like a sleeping baby in a cradle, with its sunshine falling sparsely into its eyes, its fingers shaking, as if To naughty catch this ray of light. It’s just a little animal, a tiny, soft, loaf that can not live alone without me. Later, it came, it fulfilled all my fantasies, a fantasy of a cat. Seventeen-year-old, writing the first novel, “The Last Cat in the City,” was even obscene even for cats, like the movie “Catwoman,” jumping lightly on the wall, playing pianos with a foot pad one