No self likes fantasy
Satisfy yourself with fantasy
The dream that is getting rotten in my heart
Big words can always be boasted
cover up something powerless
Some just right laughter to cover up
empty sorrow
The big tree won't ask me why I'm mourning
Fresh rain hits the feet
There seems to be no logic
It seems like it's coming soon
The whisper is no more than six words
No ambition, no ability
Intention: None