Butterfly Kill

At night, the rain was falling diagonally, weaving a hazy veil. In a remote alley in N city, messy advertisements are pasted on the broken red bricks and tiles. Garbage piles everywhere emit a fishy smell. Weeds grow in the cracks of the peeled-off walls, which are eye-catching green. The flow of cold air makes the place look even more broken. In this world, the reality is cruel, warm and cold. The rich never come here, and the poor never get out of here. The rain is still falling, watering the dark red soil and blooming bright flowers. Two flowers bloom, one on each branch. The rain has stopped at dawn, the prosperity has passed away, and the dilapidated ones remain dilapidated.