I firmly believe that the world is my representation I can see the thawed soap bubbles on the title pages of stories I can hear the equivalent jingling into the pockets I can smell the impatience of the eve of dawn in poetry I sing the world sing I dance the world dance I stuff the pockets I rent to the future Full of dried flowers and the right answer, but I lost the answer card. Peeling off the blue sky wallpaper painted with crayons. Inside, there lives cotton candy that makes white clouds, smashing and worshipping vinyl records. Inside, there is a rest that is not silent. The heart is a compass. I don't want answers soaked in honey I don't want conversations bound in mirrors I don't want street signs pointing to one-way streets I used to believe that the world was my sign until you fell on my keys I would like to believe that the world was my sign But your back is imprinted into my heart I don't believe the world is my representation Because your voice is engraved in the preface Dreams are fake religions are fake Equivalents are fake Economics is fake Crying politicians are fake homogenization The story is fake, the justice is fake, you are real, the confession is real The love poem is true and I apologize to the world It tells me the answer is that the sun has its flag of adolescence and will change its nationality. Nothing is set in stone. Rather than writing a fake answer sheet, I believe in the gathering of fireworks. Too many words I can't recognize who I am now The old night gave birth to the dreamy moon Help me organize it into a new sentence I express my love to the world It tells me the answer is you Baiyun is the citizen of the world The blue is also the sky A lyrical political novel club I'm exhausted with truth alerts no one delivered my poems rotten in my crumpled pockets the moonlight warns me again not to say it's beautiful
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