In flight, the world is under the wings or above the wings.
The lamp of the earth, when it is on, is still resting, and the tree that rests on its feet has its branches bare. The city in the sky, where to wake up from the dream, go south and go north, the way of migratory birds.
Music is a cloud, and flying is a dream. Flying over a thousand miles, going to a distant place, migration is a long silent film, the background changes, the melody is melodious, there is no dialogue scene, and there are thousands of words to tell the story of flying.
The city quagmire, the fallen lone, waiting to be swallowed, lost the sky to fly.
Mountains, plains, seas, deserts, clear sky, cloudy, strong storms, migrating roads, migrating birds.
The camera gradually darkened, and the birds could not be seen.
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