This is a city built with words
There is no glitz or hustle and bustle here
You raise your head and see birds flying south in the sky
That is the loneliest existence of loneliness
we are all in it
But none of us are princes
like those gorgeous flowers
Open in an instant, wither in an instant
fly or be blown
never stops
I'm just using my pen to write my words, pile them into the most beautiful tower, and then collapse.
This is the end of the story
Intention: