Poetry and film images are intertextual. Life, or life, is given to many people. They flashed and suddenly disappeared, just like a poem that you read, suddenly wrote, can't recite, and has no footnotes, but you are very fond of, flashed, and suddenly disappeared, flashed, and suddenly disappeared. You can salvage them on paper. Poetry, written on paper, is extremely fragile. A mischievous puppy can gnaw it into confetti; a shower of ignorant rain can crumple it. Written in my heart, the sudden love, the turmoil of changing seasons, and the madness of explosions become obscure and incomprehensible after passing a certain psychological barrier, and no longer funny. There is only the constant repetition of the rhythm of life that you are so familiar with that you even forget it exists. You take it as the subject who passes through everything, the one who sees the scenery, and attracts all the good and bad. So cherished, so fragile, so lucky, so bitter. When you figure it out one day, you will say it's okay, you will laugh and say that you are not a poet, you know the meaning of everything, and it's all in that "aha".
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