Looking Through the Mirror

He heard the person in the mirror reading poetry again.

The young man's voice was clear, like crushed ice hitting the bowl wall in summer, or like clear river water hitting pebbles.He recited seriously, not at all as if he was reading poetry, but with a bit of solemnity unique to chanting sutras.

— "Who got you this time? Guess!" "Dead," I answered.

—Listen, the echo like a silver bell: "It's not death, it's love!"

He laughed and asked, "I see that you are like an ascetic monk who is a vegetarian and burns incense every day. Does your Buddha only teach you to read these things about love?"

The young man in the mirror still kept his eyes closed and said nothing, like a stone statue falling in a mountain temple.The outline is soft, with a kind of indistinguishable beauty unique to this age.He looked at it for a while, then suddenly asked: "Then when you saw me, did you see me as death or love?" His tone was gentle, it was a gentle breeze, and it was also a demon that invited everyone to perish.

He rubbed his snow-white cuff against the mirror—it was actually spotless, and he just wanted to touch the person in the mirror for no reason.

The person in the mirror is a boy of fifteen or sixteen years old, his eyebrows and eyes are like sharp knives, blood can't be seen in killing people, and there is a breathtaking red in the corner of his eyes, like a phoenix fire and a river of blood winding through the nether world.

He raised his eyes to meet the boy's eyes that were brighter than Xinghai's.

He said, "It's death and love, it's my attachment and karma."

The author has something to say:

At the age of 31, you see him in the mirror as a teenager.

But how do you determine that you must be in the watch world?

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