Mangmang Taro Balls, My Favorite Clone Is Xiang Zhixuan

The afternoon sun slanted in, and Zhixuan curled up on the old sofa by the window, like a lazy cat. Her days are quiet. Taking care of the mint and roses on the balcony, the smell of earth is on my fingertips; flipping through a few pages of a yellowed poetry collection, and occasionally reading aloud - that is a conversation that only I and the wind can hear. But the brighter the light, the darker the shadow. When the sun sets, she will suddenly stop all movements. The freshly watered flowers twisted into unfamiliar shapes in the dusk, and the writing on the pages seemed to be rearranged. She whispered to the empty room, her voice was very soft, as if she was asking her other self: "What if all of this suddenly disappears?" Once this idea appears, it takes root and grows. She began to imagine that darkness was swallowing up this room full of light and flowers silently - not a violent destruction, but a gentle erosion, like water seeping into the soil. In those imaginations, she no longer planted flowers, read books, or talked to herself, but became darkness itself, free, but also lonely everywhere. She smiled and continued pruning the dead branches of the rose. The sun is still warm, but some things are different.