When he was born, he looked like an eight or nine-year-old child, standing with bare feet and red clothes, with long hair hanging down. Facing the people who came one after another with different agendas, he sneered in his own tone...
Sneering at the intertwined fates - they are just feathers peeling off in the annual rings, floating in the world on the drifting clouds.
It's him again, slender in white.
Suddenly he woke up and found himself in a sea of fire.
Looking at the person next to him, he asked: "Who are you? And I am..."
But unexpectedly, the words "Why do you need to ask me if you already have memories?"
The memory itself is like cicada wings like thin ice, coming in like a tide under a flash of red against the disaster, everything is torn to pieces...
The ignorance of hard work turns into the silence of sadness.
Everything is already determined.