It could be an afternoon in any season, anyone's afternoon, Virginia Woolf's, Mrs. Brown's, or Clarissa's. Three different women were also engulfed by the tide, passing through the dazzling sunlight, it was endless darkness and despair. in the garden. The bird was curled up in the grass with its wings folded and clinging to its body. It seems to want to turn into a stone and face this dilapidated world with silence. One of its eyes was still slightly open, shining black, and its gray feet were curled up, as if it had returned to its original eggshell of life. The sun shines on it, and a rose should be put on it. We always hope that beautiful life can continue to multiply, so that beautiful roses will not die. At this moment, death is as sweet and clear as a mountain spring. No one spoke. Everyone wants to kiss death's cheek, like kissing himself in the mirror.
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