(Wen, Jing)

She has always been a woman with simple desires.

Losing the power of ups and downs.

Indifferent and arrogant towards things around her.

Rarely releasing her innocence, unknown to anyone. She blooms and withers on her own.

Even if she gains, she finds it extremely boring.

Resentment grows, unable to burst out, so she remains silent.

In a dark and damp room, she directs a one-act play and enjoys it endlessly.

She hums and sings softly, but no one has ever heard.

She worries and hesitates, experiencing the rise and fall of prosperity.

Often shedding tears in secret, silently, drop by drop, sinking into her palms.

She is unwilling to share this faint fluctuation with anyone.

Once afraid of death, trembling inexplicably, now unable to face it calmly.

When thinking of him, her emotions explode, losing control and withdrawing her expression.

She enjoys talking to herself, fabricating various plots to deceive herself.

She is willing to bear it silently, silently accompanying, in exchange for the continuous ups and downs of life.

She understands this belonging so clearly, yet has nowhere to settle.

She also knows that this pursuit is all in vain, all empty.

Nightmares throughout the night, smiles during the day, are all accumulated memories.

She deeply wishes, with a loud singing voice along the way.

She watches the passing strangers around her, the more they rush, the more bizarre they become.

Where did they each go, where did they finally stay, she allows anyone to leave.

Because she knows, the end is too crowded, only enough space for herself.

Dealing with missing memories is wandering on the boundary between claiming and losing.

Wasting energy in vain.

Originally, everything seemed transparent.

So she gets lost.

She witnesses the decline and rebirth of this light, gradually becoming numb.

At some moment, perhaps turning to one side. Tears have already fallen.

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