The more I think about it, the more I feel that their wings are in the air thousands of miles away; Or, like me, temporarily live on a branch that falls late and think about the same things as me. I just guess, guess, guess a thousand strange ideas.
The wind in spring is still a little cold, especially in the spring night in the north. The evil wind blows on the ground, and after a day of sun exposure, the sun will disperse. Besides, there has been heavy fog again these days. After the fog, there is another gray cloud. The gray cloud can touch the table with its tentacles. There is a gray feeling on the table. The light is not bright, and people don't look very proud, giving people a sleepy feeling. Maybe this is what people often say about spring sleep!
I am also very bored these days, and I think of that spring thunder in boredom. Spring thunder seems to fly from the ground, like a living dream drum. Suddenly, the ground has a fresh smell, vivid and refreshing. The smell permeates the imagination of spring, and people have more imagination of spring. What I am most concerned about and thinking about is whether Shuang Yanzi in front of the door has given birth to new wings at the south gate. This time, I can listen to the rhymes of several new voices, and I also want to see the story of their wings growing in the south.
Yes, yes, this kind of boring anecdote, boring fun, is really to explore a little spring color in the story of spring, archaeological stories of creatures in another world. In my listless boredom, I started boring memories again.
I can't remember which spring it was, but I still remember it clearly, and it was also the first sound of spring thunder. Soon, a Shuang Yanzi flew back and flew under my roof; I was fascinated by reading, but their crying and crying made me slip out of my trance. Oh, my God! Who destroyed the swallow's nest? In my surprise, I vaguely remember a snowy night, and several strange voices sounded in the corridor. It's really strange, the voice is very low, as low as the voice of a ghost in hell. Voice and footsteps mixed together, very light, very light; I can't hear clearly, and I can hear clearly. Right here, right here, birds often sing. This bird likes to peck at insects, like to stand with the scarecrow to protect the fields, like to tear our shadows in the dark with sound, and prefer to look at our dark forces with nail-like eyes. Tonight, just do it!
Perhaps, it is the night of this day, the footprints in the snow that night, the strong wind that rolled up that night, the secret plan of this night, and the fingerprint of the black hand that made a living thing cry and destroyed the basic guarantee of a living thing. Sin! Sin! Oh, my God.
I am in a strange memory, like a lonely traveler sitting in a canoe. I am floating in the fog of memory rolled up by silent crazy dust. I can't see colors, I can't hear music. I only have wings, undulating in the waves of the wind. Below me is the dark forces, reaching into the sky, grasping everything that can fly, grasping everything that can move, and eating all the brilliance of the sun. They are like black waves, surging. Above me, there is a dark sea breeze, and they are going to send me to a dark island without the soul of the sun. How horrible! I am extremely afraid, fear is suspended in mid-air, and my days are floating in mid-air.
In a whim, the ice was aroused on me and I broke out in a cold sweat. I remember that I saw a strange village temple in this village. People worship a land god with the spirit of feathers. They want to kill many birds to make a bird worshipper burn. I'm afraid this strange move is a tribute to the local god.
Really? Really? I think the only belief of these believers who kill birds and feathers is that they are afraid of the eyes and throats of the sun.
Thinking about this kind of thing, I began to worry that Shuang Yan in front of the eaves had been caught by them last autumn. My worries began to dissipate. I remember that a few days ago, someone waved around with a wind wheel made of feathers and said, Look, this is my glory, this is my song, the poem of sad birds before they died, and the feathers of dead birds decorated their ties and crowns with camouflage.
I am even more afraid, because I have the same sex, the same spirit and the same voice as birds. I wrote a guttural sound. Of course, I'm a bird man, too Will I also become a feather this year, and let them put it on the wind wheel to decorate the wailing of creatures under the sword and show off their glory with greatness?
There was a flash of lightning in the sky, spring thunder was overhead, and the horn of the tide of life was issued to the earth; Spring thunder, spring thunder, shattered the gray dust floating in this village temple.