There are always endless stories to tell, and there are always endless clutches.
Looking back on the past of time, whether it is a god or a demon, a demon or a human, a ghost or a fairy, there is always an unexplainable past.
Coveting for the prosperity of the mortal world, whether it is life or death, love or hate, being unable to seek it or not being able to let it go, there is always a prosperity that cannot be sung endlessly.
Where do you look at the scenery? The red medicine is late beside the bridge, and the dead trees are sad in the green pond.
Wherever you are, you are living an ignoble life, looking out to the end of the world, looking forward to the late bluebird book.
Like clouds, dust, water, songs, poems and paintings. This life is fleeting.
The absurdity of this life is not lost in the fleeting time of youth and frivolity, but it has become euphemistic.
All in all, I failed to submit my submission to Flying Magic... It was a failure...
Intention: