A boy planted his sadness, delicate and beautiful, gloomy and gloomy.
The whitened finger bones caressed the rotten wound,
Black and purple pus flowed out from the already rotten body, exuding a stench.
What is it?
It's like... The silence of the parasol trees scattering their withered yellow leaves.
Like... The quietness of the slow and steady flow of the deep sea.
In the next life, I hope to hold your hand and walk towards our quiet happiness.
At that time, we all need to be well,
At that time, don't have that humble sadness anymore.