Like, like that smoke, it's illusory.
From a game to a story, a poor story, a story full of tragedy.
I didn't want to walk into this story, but I realized that I had come a long way before I knew it.
Love, deep, is like a cigarette in your hand, burning all the time.
It hurts to watch the cigarette in my hand burn out, so I don't hesitate to light it again, whether to continue or not.
No one understands, only his trembling hands and cold lips wander alone in the dark night.
Cigarette after cigarette. Are they talking about sustenance or missing?
It is said that there is always a silent tacit understanding behind true love, mysterious, pitiful, wry smile and silly.
I love, I want to love well.
I want to continue this love with cigarettes.
I smoke a lot, but when I am really in trouble, can I get your pity?
I want to continue like this.
Aimless.
When I picked up the cigarette again, I found it was so heavy. ...