Another year, when the grass was growing and the orioles were flying, a group of children gathered around an eighty-year-old man sitting in his manor and telling stories.
The children always felt that this old man was very mysterious because he had countless scars on his body that seemed not to be caused by sharp weapons in the world. Whenever the children asked about their origins, he narrowed his eyes and tried to excuse them. So the children began to beg him to tell stories, trying to get rid of the scars. He knew something, but it seemed to be in vain. They still refused to give up. The children begged him again this day. Finally, the old man said with a calm face and a smile - "I will never forget that year, the fire burned every corner of the world.
The silver hanging tree has passed through its prime and is gradually dying.
The setting sun accentuates the day, and the sky becomes unpredictable and imaginable.
His lonely and cold body slept in the gentle crevice, as quiet and sweet as a child, as if it did not belong to this world.
The huge haze was still turning upside down endlessly, so I tore with him desperately until my youth was buried and the years were lost.
The swallowtail butterfly's body was a blur of flesh and blood, and only the still-splendid remains fell slowly over time, forming a beautiful cross-section of the moment.
I know she won't come back. "
Love may be evil, hate may be painful, the emotions in the world are complicated, both immortals and demons are like this. They are all elves who have fallen into the mortal world. The only person who lights up in the dark night - the Dark One