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I have retired. Even so, I didn't find a new life coming. It's the same as when I was at school. The only difference is that I don't have to teach, I don't have to be with those hypocritical antiques, and maybe no one will call me Professor Lear anymore. However, all this has not made me feel any change. To make matters worse, I feel more and more like Bellow's hanging man; I'm the Estrogen of Beckett. I'm waiting for Gordo.
I really don't like this uncertain state. I have begun to hate this life. I just want to catch something, no matter what I catch. This is my poor hope. There must be something to carry or embody my hanging life. If a rattan rope can appear in front of me, I will not hesitate to grab it and climb up, whether it takes me to heaven or hell; If there is a road under my feet, I will follow it, whether it leads to the ends of the earth or the end of the world. However, there is neither rattan rope in front of me nor road under my feet. I don't know why I'm here, where I come from, who I really am and where I'm going. However, they all say that I am old. They say I have taught for most of my life, and now I have. ...
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