Legend has it that there is a disease in this world, a disease of self-attack.
Sick people are always silent, leaving only a pair of compassionate eyes scanning the suffering of all living beings.
When he was silent, his whole body burned, and his face turned gray; but his heart was gnashing his teeth, full of destructive rage.
The grass and mustard are humble and drifting in the wind.
The river lurks, showing innocent and comfortable waves.
What he suffered was Kuanyou's internal injuries.
Every wound is used to weave armor.
An armor of self-hypnosis and self-philosophy.
I thought that this set of armor could help people travel through the world and roam freely;
Helping people is as cold as ice and numb as stone;
Helping others is carefree and light, without self or form.
But this is a symptom of self-inflicted suicide.
Every time he is injured, a snow-white fish scale will appear.
I know I will be bruised and bruised, but the ending will be the same after all.
This is an allegorical novel that writes about pain and the tears that have been held back in the deep eyes.
Not fond of alcohol, but fond of elegance.
From the fields to the noisy market, only the innocence of children and the sound of the blind and mute people can be clearly heard.
This is a group show, and no one involved in the show is important.
Only by chewing out the dryness of the sponge can we talk about these illusory creatures.
Intention: Only by chewing out the dryness of the sponge can we tell about these illusory creatures.