The Night Is Not Over – a memorial for forgetting

Night is still coming

Night groans should feel the moonlight cold.

----- "Tang Li Shangyin Untitled"

One

The long night is long, and the wasteland is as quiet as an empty desert.

Thoughts are always unable to keep up with the flow of the four seasons. Late spring turns the night into a chaotic red, and autumn comes and goes.

Because of insomnia, sitting alone has become a habit. In the night of Rusi, the breath of all things is around, and the air is bare, quiet and cool. The heart is so in tune with the breath of the night, I can only borrow a coat, surrounded by a little warmth.

The illuminated table lamp, flickering with a faint soft red, and the blooming fragrance, melted into the boundless darkness. The melancholy spread out, like a painting of ink, dipped, lightly moistened, leaving traces of ash.

What's the night? Is it autumn, or spring?

Two

Life, lonely like water. On nights like this, we are real. Only on nights like this can I be awake. The emotions that had been drowned out by the day slowly surged and the strings of the night swirled softly, a kind of nothingness from life plating the sky with a bronzed, solemn cold. Light a cigarette, fiery red and tiny burning, as the mind clearly extinguished, there is a burning situation in an instant. Looking into the house, the furniture and walls were all soaked with blue and black, and the night highlighted the emptiness of the room, and I concentrated on the edge of the window, listening to the breath of the plants. The sound of the piano, coming from the ground, poured through like water, and then crossed, like a lonely hung, like a sand gull, and disappeared into the texture of the night.

How many people live in the long night? The process of inward exploration is such pain, isolated from love, independent of hate, and this pain comes from delusion. Only night can manifest such vivid truth and quietness, leading me into a realm that no one knows, heartbreaking and mysterious. The boundless silence receded from the puffy coat, and the darkest sorrow at the bottom of life struck irrepressibly. I am a poisonous flower.

Three

After the long night is the eternal night. When the wind rises, the moment it blows, there is heat, there is a mushroom, there is melancholy, there is thinness. The posture of the night began to be messy, like the countless broken chapters I wrote, dividing and disintegrating the chaotic red of spring and the moo of autumn. The mountains in the distance drifted from the stacked green to the thick black, and there was no remorse for it, and there was no return. The white veils of the hanging windows danced wildly. The traces of life, those journeys that have been made, fall mercilessly on the line of the night, and again, jump into the slur.

Unwilling to go to sleep, I prefer to melt in the wind and cold, and embrace the waves of the night. Because of the longing for masochistic groaning, like the raging tides, and the crush on the rushing waters, they only want to be the nocturnal walkers of the world, year after year, turning the sky into strength. And the heart is a barrier, a crystal marble, a pot of growing flowers, melting it by the light of the night, and slowly recovering from the dawn.

The strings gradually stopped and played again. The boundless black feathers turned into a soft scarf, falling from the sky, enveloping me, and the huge line was dragged in the palm of my hand. Time once again poured ink on the night, like a crushed tulip, and within inches, it was already full of pain and beauty. I flew away in the air, far away from myself, and in the middle was the background of indifference, as if night was in love, and eternal separation was the best interpretation.

Four

It's the eternal night.

A place where secrets are revealed, where emotional throbbing often grows. However, even with the care of the moonlight goddess, even the most beautiful love cannot resist the erosion of the night. Even so, the poppy of love still grows in the cracks of the night, blooming into a beautiful wound.

The earth is a drop of water in the sky, and the vastness of the night drowns me. I wandered on the left bank, my body gradually emptying, but the right bank did not rotate. Standing where I was, I couldn't move, I couldn't open the door, and I ran to the morning light that sprinkled all over the grassland. I know that this is a hard wound in my life, like a scab on my shoulder, a recurring wound that has long been unable to heal. Countless folded tributes, countless withered strings, countless wandering hearts, are all open in this night, they are the shadows that will never leave, the entanglements that converge into rivers, and the memorials left for the next life. They will wander through the long night, through the eternal night, and will eventually pass away in the deep cold of tenderness.

The most beautiful love is sorrow, only sorrow can be placed in the quiet place of the night, Ren Ye will completely crush it, reshaped into a diamond mirror, but the fragrance is still the same, but it can no longer reflect the light of the years. The mutilation of the day is like a strange smoke, after all, it can't withstand the ginger song sung by GongShang Zhengyu, and time is a drum that has not been repaired in time after a broken side, and it has not awakened my soul.

The loneliness from the darkness, untamed long than the floating life, the other I have died suddenly, the endless night of the ocean makes me lose the direction of home.

Five

It's time to part ways, me and the night. I have grown in darkness for centuries, and I, having been waiting for the splendor of the dripping blood, have been expecting the splendor of the disc, and have been dissolving the pain of rebirth. Today I will divide, split into soft rows, just transpositions; split into the flow of water, the standing of mountains.

I entrusted my sorrow to the night, and its great relief gave me peace of mind, and made my heart like a jade pot and my thoughts like cold ice. It allows me to restrain myself from the precipice at the edge of life, and the light dust on the bottom of my feet has not been transformed into a desperate white exercise, so I can still shine brightly in the dead silence and turn the vicissitudes of life into a delicate red. I thought I would dry up, but the poetry was like the jade of a blue field, overgrown and warm with hard desolation.

orient. A force emanating from the depths of the earth's core violently pulled away from the darkness, and a fish belly white appeared in the poles. In that instant, I was no longer myself, and the smoke from my fingertips burned my soul and my heart. Flesh like a silkworm, I once again stepped out of the barrier and threw myself into another, more nihilistic reality.

The night is the most painful and beautiful scenery, the most real and beautiful magnetic field. Countless broken strings in obscurity blow like a breeze in the night; the swing hanging infinitely high in the stirring, the thin and red in the night, the melancholy waves of the night in my eyes, and the people who have escaped into the dream will never see the remnants of the night groan.