No if

Where the Dream begins, the sea is wide and the sky is blue. What is it? I sigh in my ear but let moths slide down the candlelight. What is it? I lament in front of my eyes but let the meteor fade away from the sky. Flaming wings and breaking chest. Listen, what is that voice, tactfully and widowed. You smell, what kind of smell is that, mellow and smelly. That is the fragmented music, that is the thick and bright red blood. That is if. If the spring is warm and the flowers bloom, if the morning breeze is on the surface, if the fingertips are tightly held, if the time remains unchanged. Too many if, too many if. So it began to cycle, just like the annual ring could not escape from the trunk, so it began to chase, just like the fairy tale did not stop to chase, so it began to be silly, just like the kitten looking for a whirl. Suddenly, I found that the road under my feet had already become a circle. I still can’t stop my steps. The weak heart always keeps a place. Even if the dust has been sealed for a long time and the dust has been embellished, it keeps moving at will. Even in the dim gap of eyes, suddenly the light is dazzling, burn your eyes. The sky is dark. Only, there is no if. If, just don’t want to face the hollow shadow of the Sun tree, if, just don’t want to accept the light of the dark night, if, just don’t want to admit that the sand of the clock of time is dancing all over the sky. The shadow will finally light up, the light will eventually go out, and the hourglass will eventually run out. It only left the mark of the dream of the past. It was weathered and riddled with holes. Its face was old. It was choked in the wind and wanted to cry. Pervious to light of the holes were devoured by holes, there is no substance left that can be called tears. Although we know that there is an oasis in the desert, it is just too far away, although we know that there is Aurora in the north, it is just too long. Suddenly, there is an illusion that Aurora emerges from the Oasis, accompanied by the fragrance of Sophora japonica, enveloped around, more warm, more charming, more tired and sleepy, the more unclear it is, it is like this, sleeping, and the smile of a dream is revealed in the corners of the mouth.

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

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