What are we calling it?

To those kids, Who in deepest black of night, pace the streets alone, And have no one but themselves. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Three months and ten days ago, on a unusually cloudless afternoon, my father drove me out of the house. The sunlight shone onto our alley like a bright sheet. I tried my hardest to drive my bare feet out of that alley, running over it, looking back, and seeing that my father was there behind me. He seemed to be moving faster than his tall figure would allow, unsteady, and with one hand kept firing the weapon he had once used as a captain on the Mainland. His hair was bright like that alleyway, on end, and a pair of bloodshot eyes flared with rage. His voice, full of grief and resentment, trembled and yelled, "Animal! Animal!" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Notice: At 11pm on the the 3rd of this month, 12th-grade student Li Qingyu of night class C engaged in obscene behavior with Lab Manager Zhao Wusheng in the chemistry laboratory and was ap...

Every day and night, the endless streams of the Qiantang River wind around the small village of Niujia and flow eastwards towards the sea. Along the riverbank lean ten black cypress trees, their leaves seeming to burn red in the annual August season. Adding to the dreariness of the scene are the weeds surrounding the trees that have just started to yellow under the last evening rays. Two large pine trees shade a group of men, women, and children villagers listening intently to the words of an elderly man. The man speaking was about 50 years old, wearing a once-green robe that had long since faded into an ashy blue. But listen! After several clacks of his rosewood boards, the stick in his right hand struck a beat on a double-skinned drum. He sang, "Flowering trees lacking masters, Boundless crops feeding crows, Broken walls around a dried-up well, This place was always our home." The man who was speaking clacked his wood boards again a few fews times, then spoke. ...

Apple pie. It reminds me of that song, "American Pie" by Don McLean. I was in middle school and waiting for an eye exam when I heard it for the first time. Each refrain of the eight-and-a-half-minute song's six choruses convinced me more and more that the song was an incoherent, drug-inspired ballad. Later, a friend told me a different interpretation of the song. They said that the song was about going to war, saying "bye" to your country, and drinking with your friends one last time before leaving. I'm not sure if all of the lyrics fit that idea perfectly, but at least the chorus seems to work. At any rate, it's a much more sobering interpretation than "Don McLean had a pen in his hand while he was shooting up"—regardless of what the artist was intending to say.