Sunday, this name falls gently in the wind of Star Dome Railway,
like a letter crumpled by time, filled with countless fragments of dreams.
His growth is inseparable from those fragmented and tough materials,
just like a woman’s tears, clear and heavy.
Fifteen pieces of thoughts, like scattered thoughts, appear from time to time;
Fifteen pieces of impressions, like old letters polished by time, with some temperature left;
Fifteen pieces of broken mirrors of desires, broken thoughts, reflecting complex light and shadow.
Sixty-five pieces of illusions of a chord, like flowing old times, entangled with the pain and expectations of every moment.
Three hundred and eighty thousand credit points are silent promises that support the fragile skeleton.
The trace material is the candlelight in the long night.
The twelve remaining sounds of the same wish are the silent understanding between each other;
The forty-one fragments of thoughts are the sighs in silence;
The fifty-eight broken mirrors of desire are the hope spliced out of the broken dreams;
The fifty-six residual crystals of impressions are the mottled past.
The cloud notes, the sky bars, and the music from the sky are the beats of emotions that cannot be told.
Three million credit points are the weights accumulated over the years, gently pressing on the heart.
The skill material is the countless hidden details on the road of growth.
The fragments of thoughts, the cloud notes, and the sky bars are like the needles and threads sewn by women, stitching up broken dreams.
The light cone “flying back to the earth” is the eternal destination in her heart,
condensing countless expectations and attachments.
Treabar is the silent corner,
allowing the busy travelers to have a moment of peace and accumulate their own light with peace of mind.
Sunday’s growth is like a silent storm, flowing in fragmentation and tenacity, gentle and irresistible.