It rained in early May.

It rains during the day, the wind is strong and the rain is urgent. As if to act recklessly before summer comes.

I climbed onto the windowsill and watched the heavy rain and the stream jumping and running. The cold breath, slamming against the doors and windows, seems eager to vent the lonely trapped beast, and seems to have nowhere to stay, flustered Solo.

At the beginning of the night, it was quiet. The sunset is empty, and the tired birds return to their nests. Thick fireworks were covered with dust. The lush ginkgo still looks at each other gently in front of the balcony. In the shuttle of several catkins, I was drunk and graceful, and the gesture of wanting to answer back was lost in my chest.

I dreamed a classical dream in my mind, insisting on desolation and drinking alone.

The lush wind, refreshing and sweet, with the voice of Syria, floats across the floor and seems to be crossing the forgotten river.

Watching the fire from the other side, indifferent.

There is a familiar aroma climbing up from the flower bed downstairs, which seems to be nothing, full of summer flavor.

My mind is still on an island of despair. That kind of sadness full of loneliness is the yearning for life.

My heart is like duckweed, flying high.

The night is silent and there is no moonlight. I love loneliness, who knows.

Is the girl next door married because of love?