When I spill the glass of milk, when I crawl into bed, when you don't want to believe it, I want to write, or tell, about when a rotten girl falls in love with a crooked man.
Weiwei, that child just looks at you, listens to you, and looks forward to you, but you have to come over and tell him that everything he hopes for later is a lie. Photos are. The sound is. So is a career.
When the feeling of despair invades your skin and flows into your bloodstream, you can only cry silently. When all the lies are discovered, who can prove the truth that you love him deeply.