Every night on the bamboo bed that was cut apart by the truck lights, the woman in the moon-white shirt would always appear. The fragrance of gardenia hangs in her hair, but her forehead is covered with the same scabs as my childhood burns. The haphazardly piled quilts formed a mountain, and shadowy silk threads wrapped around her arms.
"Who are you?"
She slowly squatted down and rubbed her long hair against my cheek, which was very cold.
The broken door lock groaned convulsively in time with the sound of the siren, and the illusions burning on my retinas ate away at my last sober nerves.
"Don't look me in the eye."
There was a tingling pain in her brain, but her limbs were sealed like boulders, and she watched her melt into the darkness.
Self-salvation or complete destruction?
I can't tell whether it's a dream or reality.
Intent: I hear your pain.