Talking to loneliness, I just don't want to believe that you have left.
The years are flowing through my fingers, and I feel that my stars are slowly falling from their trajectory.
There is no happiness, but the smile is still there. There is no fairy tale, childhood is still there.
Who can resist the drifting clutches of life?
People who say they are realists often do so because their ideals have become reality-like.
The cold oath sleeps in the fairy tale.
Being broken is not the cruelest thing. The cruelest thing is to step on these fragments and pretend not to be in pain and search stubbornly.
How many secrets did those painters hide in their oil paintings, which can provide countless sad and quiet gazes over a long period of time?
I ran like a child, a child who burst into tears looking at the sky.