The stinging rain fell into the old art museum, and a drop of blood spread out the old camellia from ten years ago.
A silver paintbrush that smoothes the writing, two hands that have never reached the end of the spring, the deep love and sacrifice that have been concealed for half a lifetime.
In 1998, the turpentine and roasted oranges in the studio, the window sill covered with magnolias, painting and life, which I once thought could go hand in hand, were finally torn apart by the world, engagement and illness.
All the glory and smooth road she thought she had turned out to be the fulfillment of another person who spent the rest of his life withdrawing from the game.
The dusk mountains are covered with snow, and the bottom of the inkstone is frosty.
Those who cannot wait are hidden in the paintings and left blank; the unspoken love dries into the frost that cannot be melted in the inkstone.
A piece of old words, half a volume of deep love, are all buried in the past.
(I wrote this out of pure interest. Don't delve into the logic. Don't criticize the characters. Of course, you can curse me.)
(If you don't like it, you can just swipe it away. Thanks for stopping. The same applies to other articles)
Intent: To pay tribute to the secret and grand love, regret and success are the background of life