The wind is cold and the evening is warm. Mixed sadness and joy.
The wind is cold and the evening is warm. Sorrow is hard to distinguish.
The wind is cold and the evening is warm. Sad as tears.
I didn't cry when I lost my legs; I didn't cry when I was locked up in the attic; even when I saw that man being killed later, I still didn't cry. But when she was carried by the mountain wind and walked toward me, squatted in front of me, and held my hand, I couldn't hold it back. Thinking about it now, I should have been really attracted to her from that time on.
In this life, I will not be able to walk until the water is exhausted, I will not be able to sit down and see the clouds rising; I will not be able to sink into the world, and I will not be able to wait for heaven and earth. All encounters along the way will be lost in the future.
I still remember that the grass on her grave was already lush and green at that time, and even a few white flowers would bloom from time to time, as if the person in the grave had a dream last night, and the dream would overflow the grave when she woke up early in the morning.
That day, the sunset's blood stained the hillside again, and I saw the light sinking into the night little by little. Thousands of miles of hurricane wind blew up into the attic, composing the final lament for this absurd illusion.
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Be aesthetics, sad ditty.
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DeminingMourning, bloody plot, idealism.
Intention: Take a peek at how a person's hope is rubbed away.