Flowers are not flowers, fog is not mist.
Come at midnight and leave at dawn,
It doesn't take long to come like a spring dream,
Going like a cloud in the morning, nowhere to be found.
When love reaches its most desperate state, even a single spark can start a prairie fire.
In the cafe at dusk and sunset, gazing late at night, she was so close to him, yet so far apart,
The sadness on his face came from the fact that she and he clearly loved each other but couldn't stay together.
And is his existence a figment of her imagination or the result of different paths between humans and ghosts?
She went to poverty and fell into hell. She wanted to follow but was held back by another person.
The left hand is the sweetness of death, the right hand is the sorrow of life,
Should she jump in and be with him forever, or should she turn around and face his face and miss him for the rest of her life?