Under the blunt midday sun of an indifferent sky, 夢, å¹»ę³, å½± drift across your face like passing clouds. A dream is not an escape but the echo of thirst, clear, urgent, fleeting, reminding you that even in sleep you hunger for a world that will never answer. Illusion is the makeup we apply to the absurd, a fragile coat of paint that flakes the moment the sun rises too high. And the shadow? It is proof that you are here, a dark twin stitched to sand and pavement, silent witness to every step you choose. Between these three you stand unarmored, knowing no god will decode their meaning. Yet the knowledge neither crushes nor consoles; it simply is. So you walk, eyes open, refusing consolation, shaping a tentative justice out of small acts, laughing when the horizon vanishes again. In that stubborn stride you confirm what matters: not the mirage ahead, nor the shade behind, but the steady heartbeat of revolt that keeps you moving across the blank page of the world.
