Chang Geng hangs at night and does not cross the morning and dusk.
The name of this star is the prophecy of their meeting.
He lives in a precisely calibrated quadrant, his dark gray suit wrapped in ice made of order.
Neon shattered on the rain curtain of the art museum, and the glass wall reflected his tired cracks.
Until that reckless figure knocked open the cold metal chair, carrying pungent turpentine and wet wildness, and broke into his silent territory.
Those eyes were so bright, like obsidian washed by heavy rain, that they easily burned through his carefully constructed barriers.
Intention: growth