Every year during the rainy season, countless moths would appear on this road that were run over by passing cars. The light green eggs in their bodies exploded, their wings were flattened, but their waists and abdomens were high. From a distance, these large dark white figures gathered into a surging wave of death, like soldiers who died for romanticism. Just no red blood.
But they are so tenacious and tenacious - late at night after attending evening self-study every day, they lie persistently on the glass, flapping their pale wings from time to time, and clinging to the cold wall facing the light.
They are always born towards death.
Purpose: A romantic warrior who lives toward death