People and things, remember people and things.
Each chapter here is a fictional story.
It's the most beautiful story in my mind.
He has thick black and suppressed hair, which is hard and grows on the tightly covered cortex; the hanging slightly curly hair sweeps forcefully across the clear and restless eyebrows; the curved angles of the hairs and the gaps between them are the most precise scale and the most perfect distance.
His eyes are the only middle color, neither darkness nor light in the whole body; they are like the most crazy mud in the world, which can only be entered but never come back; and at the end of the depth, buried are the bones of thousands of people and the exquisite heart of one person.
His nose is straight, as if he can see the steel bars buried under it; it seems to be painted, with the most tacit and harmonious light and shadow; his hands are naturally tightly held, as if he was born only to protect someone, and then he can stretch out the most infinite heaven and earth.
He was wearing an extremely appropriate suit, a shirt that was too white, and a jacket that was too black. The dark, thin tie was tightly locked at the end of the two collars, leaning against the looming Adam's apple. The peach kernel-like protrusion seemed to have never rolled.
This foggy man is undoubtedly the most three-dimensional cutout in a black and white picture. The extreme black and white colors have never been so rigorous and submissive. His presence makes the surrounding beauty lose its true color, and makes the bustling noise filter into a silent film.