I would like to turn into a handful of loess in the palm of your hand, slipping through your fingers; I would like to collect the remaining warmth in your palm, and I only hope that you will remember that plain taste. You sit on a city, and I am willing to guard the vast plain in your heart for you.
...
What is the endless love, the love that can't be let go, or the resentment that can't be dealt with and becomes chaotic?