It's a styrofoam

We're all alone, alone to the soul. On the plains of life, we walk alone, and our only companions are the shadows behind us, the words, the silences spring and autumn, the winters and summers, and the accumulation of that loneliness grow. We have become so fragile that we cannot believe ourselves that a little warmth, a little hope, can lead us to abandon ourselves, such as the drowning who grabs the loose straw ... We need consolation, we need to depend, we need a shoulder on which we can rely. Scramble the dust, how can you see it in the name of so-called love? We can only follow the footsteps of desire and move to an unknown future. All we have is our love, our mad and blind courage, our fearless heart. We're like a stubborn cow, with our heads down, close our eyes, push forward, bleed, bruises... ...the end is meant to be, the blind, the stubborn, the so-called courage, just the salt particles that you spilled on the wound. And the plentifulness fell, and all that was left was the number of wounds that we had in the corner of our lives alone, and the red colour stinged our eyes. Reaching out our tongues and licking their wounds, when the blood fills our mouths, the pain makes us almost faint. No one can be comforted, no one can count on it, but us alone, bearing the pain of the broken bones ... Think back, is this love? No! No! It's not love. It's love. It's love. It's love. This is nothing but a sorrow that we ourselves have sorely sought. Perhaps the person we should not love but still love has a familiar smell of what we dream of, and that's all it is.... The bad guy goes on to describe her love in the dialogue box, her sorrows... the bad guy's description has been completely over, or has been scattered or bitter or confused, and the forest master has lost my heart as a brother... as a father as a father. Bad Boy, perhaps when you come to a strange city alone, and he picks you up, you're destined to be his so-called prisoner of love. Those clumsy and gentle things, those incompetent pastes, have the taste of happiness that is missing from your memory I don't want to pursue, not understand, not think about. All I know is that it's not love. We can call it emotional deprivation. We can call it a supply for the blind, but we can't call it love! For, when he said “respect your decision” to bury that innocent little life in cold blood, he was already doomed — not to love — well, a good one, a fake monk — is finished. It's not easy to write。