Love and hate are fleeting, and the prosperous dream wakes up with only a red cut left. All the flowers have fallen, as if the prosperity has dispersed.
When love is only the warmth in the palm of your hand, you know that happiness is just a short-lived phantom. Looking for the memory of love passing through, half awake, half intoxicated.
When I wake up from the dream, I suddenly realize that I am no longer the original me. My heart has only left behind the wrong encounters.
Falling flowers are intentional, flowing water is ruthless, we meet by fate, we pass each other and then separate, the sound of the piano is long and distant, and we move to dawn. Where are you now?