"Pensez-vous comme moi?"
"Vous n'aimez pas....."
"Pourquoi?..."
"Parce que…. Je t'aime, ah…"
It's just a story, written on an ancient book, with yellowing paper and ink marks.
Prophecy, occurrence, experience, end, record, spread.
You said, love me. You said, if I fall backward, at least I will fall into your arms.
You said, no matter what happens, you will be there. You said, you said, you said... You said a lot, but you are just a liar.
He deceived me of everything and pushed me into the abyss with a smile. Finally, you said that you hate me and love me, which is really disgusting.
Falling roses, withered blood.
Can I hate you? Or, can I love you?