I don't know her name. The first time I saw her, she was standing in front of me with a small box. She stood there obediently, looking at me with a tender look. I have never experienced such personal tenderness. When I asked her to come over, she held my hand with a hint of shyness. Perhaps the night was too charming, and I was a little moved.
In that dimly lit small room, we talked about Kafka, Dazai Osamu, Tagore and Van Gogh. Tenderness flooded you and me like a tide. I hope this moment will last forever, and I hope she can belong to me forever.
She is a beautiful white flower. I touched her beauty with my own hands, but I couldn't pick up her imperfections. I think she must be free, and no external things can restrain her existence. I just cherish her fate. She is in her prime years of youth, but she has a heavy responsibility. She has a gambling father and a younger brother who is less than one year old. All this should not be borne by her.
I want to take her away, take her away from this place, to a place without worries and pain, with only us, only happiness.
But I underestimated her stubbornness. In the hazy night, she rejected my kindness, and then I realized it. After all, she is a flower planted in a flowerpot. Whether it blooms or withers, it is not determined by the passing wind.
At this moment, I also realized that I was not washing feet but walking in the mud of the world. The only thing I can do is to let her buy some Musk pupp🐶 at her best age.
