She coveted a poem she had written, "All the people and things I love, please tell me, do I love you as you are, or do I love your phantoms in me? If one day, I will die but I am tired of your love, does my love exist? Or will it turn into regret?" Guilt and resentment of all the people I have ever loved, why am I so capricious? Am I seeking revenge on those I didn't get? Or am I trying to atone for myself? What do I want in return, or do I squander what I have and grow old alone?"
"I don't know the answer, or if I know it, it's useless. The brain and the heart don't seem to be on the same level, and one can never dominate the other."
Lin Yin looked at the cleaned floor and the white quilts in the bucket. He picked out his mobile phone and called Lin Qianbo.