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... ay be named Han Fei, or perhaps Chen Ge.
I lie on the train in April, watching the wind outside the window, this world gentle and brilliant.
The swallows return, spring is warm and flowers blossom, my eyes store all things beautiful, yet the body slowly decays.
Buried in the soil, under last winter’s fallen leaves, or repeating the everyday repetition.
They call this growing up, they think this is maturity, they say life likes unchanging stability, and stability i ...
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