Half Life of Misery

About This Novel

It was at night that I picked up the words and turned them into a book, leaving no trace of the old traces. There is depth of love between the lines, and someone is secretly throwing beads at me on a cold night. The waning moon is not aware of the pain and loneliness, and the clouds emerge from the waxing and waning fragments. There are so many desolate things in the world, and you can count them among the stars when you raise your head.

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