When he was ten years old, his eyes were filled with pure spring water, and the sunlight poured into the child's soft eyes. His eyelashes, as long and slightly curled as a small fan, drooped down, as free as a butterfly's wind.
When he was twenty years old, he endured pain that perhaps no one else could experience in his lifetime. Just when the warmth in his heart was about to freeze, the glimmer of light came through his eyes again, and the fragments of sunlight were planted into his heart. The long night and the cold winter wind and valley melted just because of the jumping torch.
At the age of thirty, the campfire lost its warmth. Too much sadness filled his stomach, and he was so innocent and cruel that he felt as if he had returned to his childhood, that little child hiding in the shadow of the low oleander tree on a warm afternoon, watching his brother strangle a cat to death.
Time never stops, and neither does he.
The boy who is always a boy is always wandering.
When he was a hundred years old, there was a girl who seemed to have known him before and loved him. However, he chose to leave because the seeds of love could no longer sprout before they took root under the frozen soil in his heart.
He is always wandering.
He started from the place where the sunset was, looking for the next sunset. Occasionally, he looked back, but couldn't see the way he came.
The night is long, the night is long.
Rolling for comments~~~