Once, I thought that I was not that stupid moth and would not go to the red feast; once, I thought that time is flowing westward, and it is true to hold it in front of my eyes; once, I thought that the young man was shining but alone. I don't want to, but I am still bewitched, rising and perishing in the flames; letting the water wash away me, I have no intention of grasping it; I want to hold on to the corner of my clothes, but it is still just a strand.
Yan Zhuxi, I can't afford to attend this feast of yours, and I don't dare to go, for fear that I won't even have a trace in this world.