The new moon and the remaining flowers, tired of the traces of time, wander and wander.
The gauze-like fog gradually became deeper. The light-ink fog has always been a masterpiece of night freehand brushwork, existing together with the vastness. The wind without any reason always makes people unable to escape at this time. The far end is quietly filled with lights.
The night is fluttering and scattered all over the ground, letting the shooting stars pass by
Days repeat like this day by day, calmly. If survival is a kind of belief, then life must be just an expectation of life. Just because I don't want to be wonderful in my dreams and sink in reality, I started to write words and stubbornly wrote the words that only belong to me.