When the roar of the beast stopped, I knew that the crisis was coming.
It's not the faint wolf eyes in the dark night, or the low back of the tiger in the grass.
Yes, the honey of the pitcher plant, the tears of the crocodile,
No,
He doesn't kill people, he only enjoys the injured blood flying in the wind when the prey escapes.
Dynamic, struggling, stubborn.
A corner of the sky lights up, and the sun shines on the earth.
Warm, then sizzling.
A new crisis has arrived.
Concept: Life has no meaning unless you create it.