Back to this decadent and storyless northern city, the images and concepts in my memory are like faded handwriting, time has made memories so weak and powerless. I fear doing such long-lasting things in this place. The lonely and dilapidated northern city, even the air is filled with a sense of oppression, making everyone's busyness look powerless and directionless. I want to escape from the screams of body and soul in an evasive way, but this method is so luxurious. The confrontation of material fully shows the predicament and powerlessness of thinking. The wind in the northern city in September is soft and bewildering, like lost children, without a sense of direction. The branches and flower buds fluttering in the wind are also full of melancholy and confusion. Walking into a small road like tangled intestines, thoughts drift away with the wind. The colorful sunlight is silent and not showy, emitting a loving atmosphere. However, when people feel touched, they often forget its existence. Happiness is always so easily ignored. I often think about extending my own thoughts in this way. Keep walking. Keep looking around. Even if there is no direction. My life is full of failure and emptiness. As life goes on, it seems that I am constantly mending and filling these gaps. Losing freedom. Losing self. Losing direction. I often think about the dreams of success and past glories, like indulging in the illusions shimmering on bubbles. The expression is desolate. I don't know how to get rid of the constraints of illusion. Falling into smoking and drinking for solace. Watching the smoke swirling gracefully without being disturbed, as luxurious as an illusory dream, I think it must have a satin-like texture. It's just seven o'clock, but the irresistible night can already be felt, impossible to ignore. Night is like smoking and drinking, it can bring comfort to the soul, tirelessly touching and healing your wounds. I like this way. Night is a kind of poison. I know. But I like it.