I am here, and I promise you a world

Driven by time, the wheel axle of the Four Seasons draws a plain life like water, year after year. The Maple Falls crescent moon, and the Frost widens the summer green. When the boundless falling wood is wrapped with silk, the cold erodes the last prosperity, and the years stand on the threshold of winter again. In this strange and familiar city, I still rise and fall with the crowd. As a vagrant, I watched the story about getting together and parting, the dream swaying in the red and wine, and the desire to exile in the Cup-changing room. In an unknown street, a pair of old people helped each other and walked towards the endless distance through the last glory of the sunset. Through the gradually stretched back, I seemed to see the conscience of this city. Stripping the flashiness, I am here waiting to meet a snow storm in the early winter. Buried Memories, buried once, leaving a piece of pure white that could not see the edge, just like the original dream. At that time, can I also let go of those that cannot be put down and forget those that cannot be forgotten. Then go to the paradise of two people and wander alone. The tears falling at that time may not be the so-called sadness. I like to leave, like to leave. Or I am used to wandering, or I have never found a place where I can stay for a while. I knew I would leave eventually, sooner or later, but that day, I might not bear to leave, just like the little match girl’s dependence on the last ray of heat. Or maybe I couldn’t find an angle of looking back with tears in my eyes, leaving my lonely back. Perhaps, you have already chosen to forget me. However, I have a scarecrow-like persistent waiting, keeping incomplete memories alone, piecing together the specious past, and then weaving a dream that can be met but cannot be sought, obsessed, sunk and exposed. Sunflower still keeps its original promise with its sour head, year after year, the first is one thousand years. I stay in your world humbly, not to be your protagonist, waiting for me beside you is a kind of happiness. If you leave, I should not be sad, because I know that I will not be your final destination. We are just a passer-by in each other’s lives. Getting together is just another separation brewing, even if there is no need to give up. Those beautiful things are just a dream of Nankai, but I have a dream of thousands of years. I am reluctant to wake up and cannot bear to see you leave. Counting the details of the past, if we have never escaped, will there be different endings? If we have never met, maybe I can also leave smartly. It’s just that everything is self-evident in reality. I still have too many words to say to you that we should have walked together, but later, I just wandered around the Cape with photos. The lives we want are different, but whether you will believe that there are too many insincere choices. Maybe there is a fateful river between this bank and the other bank after all, passing through the previous life of Last Night’s Dream. It is you who have been living for a long time, singing on the river, and the Qingming on the other bank with your help. No matter where you are, I will be where you are, not inferior, not arrogant, not silent, not loud, not far, not close, not separated, not abandoned. Will you come as promised when the snow blossoms into a sea? I am here, I wish you a prosperous life, I am here, I promise you a world of old times. Wen Qinhuai Bank, drunk ink Qingcheng

Zan (prose editor: dripping ink into injury) Phoenix mountain spring outing

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