Library

In the illusion of night, there are always bizarre plots quietly unfolding - perhaps walking on clouds across the galaxy, perhaps meeting old friends again in the rain alley, or falling into an endless colorful maze. These fleeting dreams are like sand flowing through the fingertips. If not picked up in time, they will disappear without a trace in the first ray of sunshine in the morning. So, I picked up the pen and salvaged the broken fragments while half asleep and half awake: writing down the murmurs that passed by my ears, describing the images that flashed through my eyes, and retaining the tenderness and absurdity that cannot be replicated in reality. This is not an addiction to illusion, but a small bookmark for every corner of the soul that has bloomed in the dark night. When I read it in the future, I can still think of a world that only existed for me in my dreams.