There is no real poetry in it, only the scattered fragments that he has rescued over the years from the data stream that is about to be permanently deleted: a text description of the sunset, the color is so strong that it violates the current aesthetic norms; a few incomplete sentences with strange rhymes, it is difficult to read. But it made people feel a little swollen somewhere in their hearts; a hand-drawn starry sky map, marked with long-abandoned constellation names, these illegal things were useless and even risky, but it was the only inexplicable comfort in his gloomy life, like a shadow seen through thick frosted glass.
