It can be called time, or it can be called redemption.
A work of inspiration, no intention.
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She was really beautiful. People who saw her said at first that she looked like a white lotus emerging from the water.
There were many boys who liked her at first, but later they would rather like someone who looked far worse than her.
Let her grow like a weed and then be stepped on. The last fire burns out.
She felt like she was going to die.
Might as well think about something else, all the stories about redemption are disgusting as hell.
Her long first half of life was nothing more than this.
When I thought like this before, my eyes would get wet and I would want to cry.
But now, I no longer have the desire to cry. I just feel like I am recalling the life of a stranger.
But she is just lonely.
When I fall into the abyss, when the straw in my hand breaks, I want to pull another person down.
When she was a child, she would never have imagined that one day, she would interpret her name so perfectly. Convergence.
She finally saw the light, at the end of her time. She finally saw her mission and finally stopped worrying about the past. Finally learned to have neither joy nor sorrow.
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Intention: