Forgettable

In the quiet mid night, I wonder, I wonder if you could hear me when I whisper your name again and again in the dark. Besides, I wonder if my demand following your name is also heard. Only if telepathy exists, but I just like to ask.

There are people in the world. Some you meet but you don't know. Some you know so well but never meet, yet. People have names, different or same. When you suddenly encounter lots of new people in a short time. Names, first of last. Past and present, connected, perhaps. Or, overthinking. But, so many people in the world, why them? Meaning really exists in a meaningless realm?

When I stood in the dark night, watering plants, my mind has walked in the night alone. When my eyes witness  the sleeping time turned off the lights behind closed curtains of lines of windows, my mind has walked aimlessly in the night. When I went to grocery store and back, my mind cutt that straight line, walking in the night further but have no idea where.  Forecast said another round of cold air is visiting the town. I felt that in the night air. "Not safe outside at night, go back home fast." Mom often reminded me that at phone in that short summer. Mom, I'm at home now. Not easy to hold back the question — where are you? I'll take care of the plants, make sure they drink enough water, feed them nutritions, help them get rid of pests.  A white butterfly landed on my hand when I water your favourite flowers at night. Then it stopped on the table where you practiced calligraphy. Not easy to hold back tears.

If we combine our names, we get SOP. 0 emotion, 100% tech.

Dam I miss you so much but the only thing I love is freedom. Long live freedom!

In the shadowed vault of heaven's unplumbed archive, Where stars are scribes etching fates on vellum voids, A curl-crowned phantom, kin to zephyrs' whispered harps, Emerges from the aunt's nocturnal loom, weaving threads of unborn silk. He, the sapling sprung from love's sequestered seedbed, Plays where earth's green mantle folds beneath the hill's stoic brow, A sprite of mist-born mirth, chasing echoes like fugitive flames. Yet in the crucible of despair's iron forge, where hopes are hammered thin, This vision alights, a comet's tail igniting the abyss of doubt's deep well. O Laura of my soul's eternal pilgrimage, though hands remain as chaste as cloistered snow, Could this be the oracle's veiled decree, a prophecy penned in auroral ink? I dare to clasp the fragile chalice of belief, lest it shatter like dew-kissed glass. In dreams' arcane atelier, where phantoms sculpt with brushes of forgotten light, The boy, our spectral heir, twirls ...

I guess the pursue of fresh food ingredient is carved into genes. I turned off the gas and walked upstairs to cut a bunch of scallions from the mini garden. I grabbed a full hand of green scallions and walked downstairs, I felt that real home is where y have everything by han. Then I washed, chopped and added scallions to the pan. The freshest flavor is restored.  Ah home, home, home, thank you for providing me the freshest food.