He smashed the wine glass in his hand against the wall. With a bang, the wine in the glass spilled onto the painting on the wall. The woman in the painting couldn't help but burst into tears. The scattered glass in the air scratched his face, and he sat slumped on the floor, his suppressed sobs making people sad.
Blood flowed from the cold cheek along the lines, fell to the ground, and bloomed into dazzling tiny flowers. The woman at the door turned away indifferently.
There is a cigarette butt that has not been pinched out at the end of the corridor. The body is twisted and waiting for the end of life. It has been abandoned before it is finished. A tall figure is hidden in the darkness.
It turns out that the memory is just a rotten wound. As long as you are willing to bear the pain, it will cease to exist. Elegiac songs are just words that poor people cannot let go.