Red Scarred Ember Earth: the Seventh Crack in the Sky

The night is a piece of velvet soaked in ink, and the dream is the first ray of light that passes through the eyes of the cloth - no, maybe it is more like an outlineless visitor, always gently pushing open the side door of consciousness when your eyelashes tremble for the third thousandth time. No one can tell its texture. Logic is broken glass, scattered around your feet, while emotion is the only star track - you will cry for someone you have never seen before, and you will tremble with laughter at a distorted shadow. When you wake up, the tears on the pillow have not dried, but there is still an absurd sweetness in your throat. The best part is the farewell. It's always like a cobweb in the morning mist. When you reach out to fish it out, you only find wet and cold palms. But the lines of the cobweb suddenly appear in a distracted moment during the day: it may be a dream sentence hidden in the subway station announcement, or it may be the same maze drawn by the raindrops on the glass window of the cafe as in the dream. You can't tell whether it broke into your sleep or whether you accidentally fell into its folds. When the morning light climbs onto the window sill, all traces of it evaporate, leaving only the faint soreness of a certain joint, like someone who held your hand in a dream and relaxed it before dawn. And tonight, what will it disguise itself as? Is it an old house that I haven't seen for many years, or a breathing cloud? No one can tell. After all, it is the tailor of the night. When we close our eyes, it secretly tailors those desires that we dare not admit, and then sews them into a past that we do not want to forget.......