Embers of Life

In these years, the wind is wrapped in anxious gravel, making people's hearts tingle. Love has long been dismantled into pieces, like the clean meat in the vegetable market, weighing and weighing to see the appearance of the ticket, scrawled like overnight rotten rice. There are two people who, when the economy is in decline and people's hearts are on the rise, are like two old stones, trying to plant the buds of "sincerity" in the cracks of the steel bars. The men are dull and accept death, while the women stubbornly believe that "knowing" is more expensive than numbers, counting on daily necessities in the face of soaring prices, and holding hands tightly in the face of layoffs, thinking that they can survive the world with this stubbornness. But the wheel of the world does not care whether it contains diamonds or dung. The "truth" they keep has become a pedantic joke. In the world of fast food love, social sliding, and material lists, this slow-burning relationship seems like a sin. In the end, the wind is still the same wind, and the days are still the same pot of bitter porridge. If the buds are not protected, they will not starve to death, but they will be drowned by saliva or crushed by persistence. There is nothing spectacular, only the daily pain that cuts through the heart, like a dull knife cutting flesh - laughing at the scrawled era of love, crying cannot tolerate seriousness, and even crying for those who insist on being serious, eventually becoming the most depressing scar of this scrawled era.