Like a piece of paper hanging on the city gate, with poems about birds, waiting for the enemy's arrows to shoot into the core divided by time and life.
Wait, hope, and wish.
When life is down to just a piece of paper, the paper is blank and silver white.
A grand and distant artistic conception, like moss-covered mountains, with sheep flocks dressed in pink attire slowly walking away with the shepherd's flute music. Walking further and further until they vanish quickly, leaving behind uneven silhouettes, like the fallen red dust, sealed in the world.
The years and stories that cannot be created with pen and paper each have their own merits. Accompanied by fireworks cooled by moonlight, they bloom again on the shoulders of the volcano. Those children who dream wildly use their childhood adventures to pick a flame, bright red and hot.
All the landscapes it carries are imagination, all dreams. On that piece of paper, countless trees, flowers, and flying birds were drawn, countless fields and blue skies. In the end, after being washed, it becomes even paler.
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