That obsession, that love, that hard memory, is always clearer every time the rain comes.
Smoke and rain are always easy to cold, flowers and beauty will always wither, like the flow of water in the years, tired scars, is it really only heartbreak to really understand?
The moment the tears slid through the corners of my eyes, I understood that the kind of story that had no ending was doomed from the beginning. Let the tears flow freely with the rain, flow into a river, soak with sadness, drip into blood, and remember the past.
Tears are drifting, falling leaves are flowing into the water, and it is the fate of a thousand years that cannot be stopped. Nostalgia is the old land, the traces that have long been stained. Locked, red dust. In the story, how many broken intestines, endless acacia, over and over again. That lonely back, the road is endless, there is too much helplessness. The laughter was familiar but strange. It's the whisper in your ear. When it was all over, A thousand years of mourning were heard.