Jiang Zhiming's Sed Death

Jiang Zhiming had died again. This time， he had no doubts—he was truly dead.

Because before his“eyes，” there wasn’t even darkness， let alone light.

Jiang Zhiming， being uneducated and unmotivated in life， didn’t think of philosophical cepts like“emptiness” or“void.” Instead， his mind wao something a friend of his once said:

“If you’re aware that you’re dead， you really call it death? That’s just a special kind of life.“

So he wasn’t shocked. He tio think normally.

Before his death， Jiang Zhiming had been a civil servant， well-versed in clichés ay phrases. Now， another line surfaced from his memories of ba the diable:

“The proletariat owns nothing; the only thing they lose are their s.“

Well， now he truly had nothi.

Yet， he still existed.

What would you call this? A wandering ghost?

That didn’t quite fit. Without a brain， he couldn’t evehe tryside if it were there. A field， present or not， made no differeo him.

But he could still hear.

He heard silence.

It was like standing in a desert on a pitch-blaight， except there was no blao night.

The worst part， perhaps， was the absence of touo sensation of heat or cold.

Someone else might feel an imagined chill from sheer terror.

But thanks to his talkative friend’s musings， Jiang Zhiming was somerepared for this. In fact， he felt a tiny flicker of curiosity， maybe eveement.