What are we doing in these hazy years? In this bizarre world, there are no bright clothes, no angry horses, no roofs and green lanes. The air is mixed with the fresh breath of rain, with veins of pale red petals, peeling off the story bit by bit.
Time pours down, soaking the face, numbing the heart, those slowly blurred memories, those slowly flowing years, those gradually thicker voices, those children who grow up unknowingly. We don't even remember when we were all wooden people.