She likes the city at night, those windows with lights on, there are always infinite ambiguous stories for her imagination.
The falsehood under the sun gradually reveals its rotten truth under the cover of night.
Everyone was slowly submerged in the sweet hallucination, like a bug falling into a pitcher plant, happily heading towards death.
This is a story written by a person who doesn't believe in love at all, so I will throw away egg shells as much as I can and send flowers as much as I can, but I will not accept any form of debate or brainwashing. Those who are uncomfortable will not be admitted, and I dare not waste your valuable time.
PS, writing a preface is a very painful thing. If you agree, please raise your hand!~~