Chapter 1811
Words:306Update:22/09/24 16:31:18
Just like the time in the Ink Realm that I wrote in the first two chapters, the present, including the upcoming January, may not belong to the past or the future, but a wave of anticipation — the anticipation of waking up from the dream of blood and slaughter, sitting on the bed with aching bodies, looking out the window to welcome the dawn in the sound of birds singing.
The world may usher in another ordinary day, or it may not. 2021 is still a black box. After being sniped and wounded by 2020, we may be a little hesitant and a little absent-minded.
The time that roars through us will leave a mark on us. 2020 is a year of dryness, loss and fatigue; in the future, when we wander in the grasslands and forests that have become lush again, we will always remember the great drought of the past year, and the traces of the drought: the scorched earth burned by wildfires, the riverbeds that have been diverted and narrowed.
But the snow on the distant snow-capped mountains is about to melt, turning into gurgling streams, shimmering with fragmented light.
If I have to choose a word to give to everyone, to myself, as an encouragement for 2021, then I will choose "courage."
New Year's Message from "Doomsday Paradise"
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