Dreams, held in my hands, but lost in my fingers, but empty again, red is a mole, burned in my heart, red is as mediocre as mosquito blood, the world's beautification, the only fluttering, but also the excitement, when I hugged you from behind, what I was expecting was her face, but it's a mockery, I don't understand, but I long for you to understand, is it that happiness is overheard, overused, it doesn't itch, it doesn't hurt, it's rotten, it's hollow, its pupils are finally empty, it's finally beginning to be, and there is no end to it, and the unavailable is forever in fluttering, and those who are preferred, they are emboldened, the red is easily wounded, and there is no end to it. The red of a rose, the red of an easily wounded dream, held in the hand but lost in the fingers, and then empty, is it too heavy to say that love is too heavy, overused, not itchy, not painful, burned red, but the heart is entangled in the heart, frozen at last, at last, without a beginning, without an end, the unattainable will always be in commotion, and those who are favored are emboldened by the red of a rose, the red of an easily wounded dream, held in the hand but lost in the fingers, and those who are unattainable will always be in commotion, and those who are favored are emboldened by the red of a rose, the red of a rose, burned empty, and the blossoming dream. The dream of being held in the hand, but lost in the fingers, and then lost again.