She is the unattainable love he longs for, as cold and distant as snow, forever beyond his reach.
She is the red rose in his arms, passionate as fire and right before his eyes.
He marries the white rose, yet yearns for the red rose’s beauty. He takes the red rose as his wife, yet still gazes at the distant white moonlight.
Only when the red rose withers and the white moonlight leaves does he realize...
The speck of rice stuck to his clothes was once the moonlight shining beside his bed.
The mosquito bloodstain on the wall was once the cinnabar mole upon his heart.
And she was simply the clearest-eyed outsider in this farce.
