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I will sit in a place where there is sunlight, read the newspaper word for word like a cat licking a milk bowl, and then inhale the various fragments of life that the world carries out in the sun to moisturize every cell.
The End of the World and Cold Wonderland
"If, Please"
Lou Beike
If tomorrow is still winter
Please drift the snow under the street lamp to another summer
If every keyboard is to be marked with a name sticker
Press backspace after enter
If the stereo fell in love with the buzz sigh
Please connect it to the wind channel
If every ripple has the shadow of a star
Please step on the puddle and fall into the brightness of the night
If "one" is written as a left and right structure
Please guide sorrow away from the human world
If a grain of transparent sand is equal to the architecture of a block of ice
Please let the blisters swirl in the breath of the raindrops
If tomorrow wake up tomorrow
Don't imitate today
"Here"
Wisława Szymborska
Living on Earth doesn't cost much.
For example, dreams do not incur a field fee.
Illusions have to pay a price only when they are shattered.
Body rental fee - paid with the body.
To add one more thing,
You can spin on the planet's carousel for free,
And ride with it in an interstellar blizzard,
Dazzling light years so swift,
Nothing on earth has time to tremble.
Take a closer look:
The table is still standing in its original position,
The paper is still where it was originally spread,
Only the breeze blows into the half-open window,
There are no terrible cracks in the walls,
Let the wind blow you into nothing.
"Don't Write About Yourself"
Paul Celan
Don't write yourself down
Among the worlds,
Rise up and fight
This dazzling meaning,
Believe in the tear stains,
Learn to live.
April fades and the rains run wild. But rain or shine is not much different to me. The four-square world shrinks into a delicate miniature landscape, and the layers of vitality seen through the glass are flat and realistic.
Droplets of water fluttered lightly over the green leaves, like a desperate man gasping at the edge of a cliff, covering the edge of the death line in the most radical life forms. The birds chirped so crisply and so loudly that I imagined how the gray birds and finches flapped their wings in amazement, deftly holding a warm wind through the empty medium. The clouds are far away from the sky, and the clouds fall on the ground and gallop, sweeping away some pain, leaving behind chattering resentment and love, turning into rising snowflakes and giving rise to the vitality of humanism in the glass ball.
I lived on a square screen, my fingertips tapping on the keyboard, the mouse sliding over a few lines of grief. Desperately crocheted with words, the old ideas are transmitted to 100,000 pairs of innocuous eyes, and the appetite for renting houses and eternal emptiness is diligently nurtured.
Exhale new manuscripts, absorb new lunches, open new loneliness, and suck new love. Life is a viscous nightmare. Looking back at the year when I was young and ignorant, the remote control's runaway snowflake TV set illuminated me to sleep in the winter, and I didn't necessarily wake up in the summer.
Share your April playlist
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Poetry collection of the same hard-shell notebook activity
I know you're watching too