I think I must have been a beast that haunted the night in my previous life. After midnight, some of my senses would be particularly sensitive. Like now, when the stars in the dark night are looming, I am awake, wandering in the network of illusion and reality, counting my own life.
Quietly, reading some sensational words, I will cry easily. Just like that time, holding hands with the person I once loved, in the open-air cinema on the university campus, watching Jack willingly be buried at the bottom of the ocean with the Titanic for Ruth, and weeping heartbrokenly. Many years later, at this moment when the young bird has disappeared, there are still shallow tears that wet Borges' night, so noble and dignified.
I still retain the habit of aromatherapy. In life, there are some things that you can't afford but can't put down. Everyone has some unforgettable memories that linger. For me, it is this habit of aromatherapy in a room. Inadvertently and deeply, I still have to do it in order to forget.