Arctic Fox

I have been immersed in the thousand-year singing of the white fox for a long time, drifting into the studio step by step, and transformed into a white fox in your writing... (It's also a dream, please come with me into the world of Liaozhai) I am a fox waiting for love, dressed in white, as lonely as snow. Late at night, when I have no intention of sleeping, the music whispers to my ears, the pillow is filled with the warmth of my imagination, listening to the breathing of my heart, the quiet sobs, curling around, passing through the mottled years, entwining the graceful grace of sadness and lamentation. It was already spring, but I was immersed in the thousand years of waiting, and I couldn't help but feel meditative. At the moment of heartbreak, I feel like I am falling into the mist. A white fox song, with its tearing sound, makes my mind wander like a song. I seem to have spanned thousands of years. Can you let me dance for you and love again, and perform a perfect ending? Night after night, who is crying for whom, crying for the tenderness that has been wandering for thousands of years? Time and time again, who is intoxicated by whom, intoxicated by a long-forgotten infatuation? Don't let the white fox's infatuation become an unprecedented pain, spreading among the rolling world, but still waiting for nothing. If possible, please let me warm its meridians with my beating blood, lingering in the heart of the world, washing away the shock of the body and mind, enjoying the dimly lit loneliness in the rolling mortal world, accompanying this gentle night with infinite sorrow. Who is it? I still vaguely remember the tenderness last night, that affectionate look back, as if I have a thousand words to say, the song that was conceived countless times in my dreams. Listening to the white fox, it wakes up the thousand-year slumber, the unbearable longing, and whispers the heavy feelings and love, rising and falling in the vast sea of ​​people. When the noise subsides, the heart is broken, the hole in the ground penetrates a curtain of dreams, igniting the accumulated longing, and gently flaps the dust-covered wings, one has to lament the helplessness of the beauty. Was the meeting thousands of years ago a lucky fate or an inevitable doom? Is the reincarnation of thousands of years the beginning of romance or the end of tragedy? Crossing the entanglements of the world of mortals, abandoning grudges and grudges, and filling the gaps that are out of print. Who is it? Watching the heartbeat of the past, in that splendid place, the past has been condensed into frost, and every bit is a helpless injury. Inside and outside the wall of time, the clouds disperse and the rain flies.