Perhaps it is this inseparable loneliness and this meager comfort that prevents us from stopping. Just like the monkey on the journey to the west has ridden countless clouds and killed countless beautiful female fairies, he keeps heading westward, looking for the holy land that can relieve the sufferings of the world.
What is ridiculous and absurd is that this holy land has never appeared. Those imaginative and brave people back then were just like the mosquitoes that did not circle around the lamp at midnight and took the risk of sucking my blood. I twisted my fingers and before I had time to show mercy, it had turned into rotten flesh and mud. Perhaps the only good thing is that a few years later, the descendants of mosquitoes will yearn for the delicious taste of human blood like their ancestors, and create legendary stories such as "A Mosquito" to be passed down to future generations.
However, there are no more Westward Travelers.