Burning Lie Notes

On the dunes, a pair of sisters danced in the sunset. The skirt of the skirt is flying like two clusters of leaping flames. If you tap your toes, the quicksand will ripple. Their laughter shattered in the wind, which was the most authentic joy of life. Not far away, an old woman was walking alone. She stooped and trembled every step of the way, like the last dead leaves on the branches in late autumn, struggling to fight the wind. Each step was slow and solemn, leaving deep grooves in the sand, which were quickly wiped away by the wind. This scene is like a silent drama. I seem to see flowers falling from the theater hall many years ago. The bouquet of flowers flashed across the bright lights, carrying all the unspoken love and wonder, and rushed to a short and dazzling withering. Its beauty is fixed in the falling arc. And the wind will eventually stop, and the flowers are destined to wither. The destruction of mediocrity is not caused by violent storms, but by indifference and forgetfulness day after day. They cover the swirling footsteps with worldly dust; they drown the last trembling of life with numb whispers. The dunes will eventually become flat again, as if nothing had happened. The whirling dance, hesitation, and the shadow of the bunch of flowers in the sky have all become a very light sigh between heaven and earth.