(: The End)
Many years ago, that dandelion is still drifting boundlessly. And all it produces is just the process of lingering and forgetting. Under the sunlight, it's too dazzling to see the direction of the falling flowers. In the dark night, it's too dark to see the appearance of the blooming flowers. From sinking to drifting, it has always been a continuation of a story. That's all.
I am used to living in a posture of mental breakdown, which seems exaggerated and frightening, but I can do nothing about it. Life always likes to play jokes, and there will always be some kind of connection between people. It's messy and unpredictable. You know, even if the assassin dies accidentally, his wife is also good at this. Prevention is better than preparation, and preparation is always one step behind. Like a rose with poisonous thorns all over its body, you don't believe in love, but a heartless man wants to pick you. And where to complain?
I am no longer that child who despises the world, and I am no longer that child who worries unnecessarily. I have to say that I like this noisy world of material desire. I like to let desires flood in the air, growing wildly like vines on a wet fence, extending to every corner where they can run rampant. The sense of fulfillment filled with bloody smell, terrible screams, and corrosive materials can make people's mind and body full of accomplishment. Some things that have been lost or not yet obtained are all offered by both hands in the unknown destiny. This is delightful. Of course, destruction afterwards is a kind of triumph. You can imagine, in a deserted place, how invincible it is.
No one will pay attention to such endless solitary pleasure, no one will see that the castle in the fog has become shabby, and no one will care about the comings and goings of people. I wonder why the person in Kafka's pen dare not take a step beyond the castle, but repeatedly hesitates at the city gate. Consulting those ignorant gatekeepers and those clumsy villagers. Let the cold snow bury the original intention, let some unknowable fears stop his steps. He is an unconfident protagonist, he is just a joke. His life or dream is like the snowflakes in the sky, drifting without direction, blindly following the preceding snowflake, settling down wherever it goes. He doesn't know that this ignorance will only make himself melt into a pool of dead water, a dead water without temperature. When a carriage passes by and splashes mud, everything is over. A failure in life, a joke for others.
Thinking of Leon, thinking of Lolita, thinking of Julien, thinking of 1900. Thinking of Don Quixote, and also thinking of Aureliano. If they are strings, then I am a tuner. If there were no these people, how could there be so many melodies of sorrow and hatred? If these things had not happened in memory, how could there be so much pain and sadness spreading? Destiny, or fate.
Floating aimlessly, why can't I be impervious to weapons. Suddenly, I miss that waiter with a simple heart but a rough appearance. He always turns a blind eye to my words and deeds. A calm heart will never be tempted by worldly temptations, but I don't think so now. Floating between strangeness and loneliness, feeling the combination of temperature and humidity, tasting different breaths like taking drugs, sucking powerless spirits like a vampire. This is the reward for the king of life, this is the excuse for the weak to find corruption. Just like the weakling in Kafka's pen, he dares not knock on the city gate. He does not know why the city gate is locked, because there is a lonely person inside. The winter snow is still floating, making a whistling sound, like a woman's moan.
I like that dream, last night's dream. Recently, I have a good relationship with dreams. In fact, who can determine. Closing eyes is a dream, and opening them isn't a dream? I see myself surrounded by the light of diamonds, dazzling and dazzling. Compared with the brightness of the sun, it is no less. Where would that twilight city be located, and what would the woman look like who wanted to live forever with me until the end? I tried hard to recall, but I couldn't identify it. I only remember that unknown loneliness, and that ceaseless killing. Visiting those who once loved me, those mottled memories of childhood, those bright years of sunshine. But everything is so silent, even making me doubt whether all this really happened. Dream, I don't know if it's just a dream. Beloved, I don't know if you're there. Always alone, I admire the diamond light on my left arm, dazzling, but not painful. I feel warm, in the nightmare without sunshine, I clearly saw this heartbreaking scene.
The melody called "memory" keeps echoing in my ears, it is also drifting, drifting on its own. Feeling a little cold, it might be summer, or maybe autumn already. Seasons and time have long lost their original meaning. Anyway, time goes on, time does not stay. I can fully understand why that middle-aged man is infatuated with the young Lolita. Purity is fear. Afraid of loneliness, afraid of losing, afraid of changing, afraid of hurting. Even the boys in the same class cannot talk much, let alone the malicious followers who have been following. What's wrong? Sin, soul, fire of desire.
I am a night-blooming cereus, I bloom for you in the deep night. When dawn comes, I wither on the stone road, drift in the dust.
QQ (1078443) Cold and Indifferent as the Universe