Sanctimonious and immoral attack
When I loved him, my soul was transparent, my eyes could hold the glimmering light of the lake, and my nose could smell the orchid. I would like to know how many pieces of Zen thoughts were mixed in yesterday's poetic eyes, how is it different from today? The sunlight was drawn into a red thread by the studio window, one end was tied to my ankle, and the other end was wrapped around his wrist. I followed suit, and flowers blossomed in his writing. When I extracted all the pounding heartbeats I found from every gap in time and shelved them away, I should have expected that when I look at them now, they will become dusty scrolls.