If there is a period of time when the sun and moon are dim, the sky collapses and the earth sinks; if there is a piece of memory that is fragmented and twisted; if there is a group of people who have been the same for ten years and are inseparable in life and death; if there is a city built with the heart as its tiles, built with one's own hands.
Should there be a hand and a pen to write down a book of memories that will never fade away; should there be a person and a heart that grows old in a hurry with full of scars and fatigue; should there be only desolation and gray hair left after trekking to the end of time.
Please open this suicide note and take a look at the despair and hesitation you once had. Recalling myself coming back from hell and coming back to life, I burst into tears for a moment.
How good, how good, leaving traces on the suicide note;
How good, how good, the staggered handwriting on the suicide note;
How good, how good, the ink marks on the suicide note;
How good, how good, the suicide note is dripping with blood.
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