Passing By

I put my hands beside me, and the thousand-year-old wind of the prairie still blew my blue dress. The blood is still seeping into the ground beneath you, and the heat in your heart gradually dissipates. Is this the feeling of life passing by? He weakly let go of the trembling staff in his hand. I'm tired and want to let go and let all the memories go with the wind. If the saint of Baisos disappears from now on, will the king of Jiepen be happy? . . . .