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"The hotel Room 807, an atonal space, a strange yet intimate place. I am willing to vent my emotions here. It peacefully receives my grief like an indiferent man. I am willing to be butchered by him."
It was the summer 2002. I was in a bad mood. I left my city and hung around outside, from Guangzhou to Chendu, from Beijing to Wuhan. In those days, my mood reached its lowest point. It seemed there was no way to return.
It was pretty hot in the daytime in Wuhan. The girl who travelled with me and I always stayed in our air-conditioned hotel room during the morning. One dull morning, just before leaving, I had to take photos to note down my sorrow, my disappointment and my depression at that moment. In Room 807, I laid myself in the wardrobe and bathtub, tied and wrapped myself up. I choked where and when. I murdered myself. And then, I found my way home.