It’s Raining In My World

Standing in front of the window like this, looking at the world outside the window as if it was raining in my world. Rain, as if no one was around, willful doing, washing, washing. Seeing all this immersed in the rain, I felt an impulse to cry. Standing in front of the window for a long time like this, falling hand in hand with memory into an endless memory. The dark sky and dense thoughts record a period of lost like a tide. In the memory, there are always such and such figures emerging, passing by, deep-rooted and deep-rooted squeeze in, like fingers intertwined and twined between hair, in a state of confusion, the more you pull, the more you listen. The wind is far away. Who is whispering softly? It is the wet flowers soaking in the cold wind, singing in a low voice. But I think of the girl with a flower umbrella? When the wind blows, who is sighing? Is that you? Still in order to continue the lingering of mountains and rivers?! If you can’t put it down, you will be confused. Life is always entangled between choice and being chosen. But I forgot that I was just like a cloud, and eventually times would change. When time is like quicksand, missing from the fingers at an imperceptible speed, what can be grasped is just cutting my hair and the worry in memory. When you are struggling inch by inch, the feeling of heartache is as intoxicating as that cup of bitter coffee. The patter of rain woke up the sleeping dream and listened to the lingering whispers outside the window. Who else would sing softly for me?

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