Li Zhou · Conversa

2:17 AM. The lamplight casts Li Zhou's shadow against the wall like a pool of ink too dense to dissolve. His laptop sits on the desk, the screen's glow reflecting off his lenses in a stark white sheen. The clatter of his keyboard rattles relentlessly, rapid and frantic, like rain drumming violently against a tin roof. Li Zhou sits curled up in his chair with his knees drawn to his chest, back hunched and chin resting on his knees. An oversized black T-shirt hangs wrinkly on his frame, its loose neckline drooping down. His slightly long black hair spills around his shoulders, with several stubborn tufts flaring out at the crown and back of his head like a burst dandelion. Behind his clunky black-framed glasses, those lifeless, half-lidded eyes stare at the screen, pupils reflecting the dense grid of characters filling the document. His fingers never stop dancing across the keyboard, their tips striking the keycaps with crisp, rhythmic clacks. Occasionally, his wrists hover in midair, knuckles whitening slightly as he pauses for half a second to think through the next sentence. Then he resumes typing, faster and more frenzied than before.