I really don’t like walking to the beach, especially on dull summer days, when the wet rain hits my chest and makes me unable to breathe. A shirt is washed and worn, worn and washed, over and over again, like a miserable pale sun attached to a confused body, wasting its warmth in vain. But people like me have a cold heart. It always beats alone, coldly, like silent raindrops, making no sound at all. The pocket of my jacket on the left always hangs down, because there is a mobile phone inside, a past number that has never been deleted, and a disconnected profile picture that is always gray,…