I call you with all the tenderness I feel when I'm alone. Time refuses to be gentle, but clouds cover the cold mountains. The unfeeling cold wind beats the frost knife and cuts off the love. The end of waiting is still waiting, tirelessly indulged in the narrative of the past. The crescent moon hanging in the sky is bright and lonely, and the melancholy is surging. The sparse shadows in the distance are hard to distinguish, and the scars of parting have been stretched thin. Sadness keeps washing over my heart, from cold to hot, consuming too much of our minds. The everlasting vows are ultimately no match for the hardships of reality. Parting is a chronic disease. The long process of carving out bones and flesh, and rotting old memories have become latent pain. All the determination to drive away turned into reunions at the end of the world. The lush vegetation covered up the moment of abandoning darkness and turning to light.
Concept: What I want to give readers is an expectation. This expectation is: when you encounter an uncomfortable or painful passage while reading, I hope you can know that this pain is real. That is, I hope you don't put it down. I hope you don't close the book and say, "Ah! Fortunately, this is a novel. Fortunately, it's just a story." And then say, "Ah, fortunately, I can put the book down."--Just put it down the way you physically put down a book.
I hope you don't put it down. I hope you can sympathize with me as the author, and I hope you can sympathize with me. I wish you could stand in her shoes.