It's not inexplicable, I feel like I'm looking for you as a matter of destiny.

The first time I looked for you, it took me three hours.

The second time I looked for you, it took me fifty minutes.

The third time I found you, it only took me four minutes and three seconds.

The rest of the day has been exactly four minutes and three seconds, obviously I don't think you're a person who is missing at any time, but the last time I looked for you, I haven't found you until now.

It's not all a good thing, at least I feel that the blow to me from this subsequent flying accident is not something that can be wiped out in a flash.

I don't know what kind of functional relationship in this world can concisely describe the unbelievable tug-of-war process between me and you, but I don't just know love and love, in my opinion, it's completely stupid and stupid, in fact, I'm really angry, so angry that I breed hatred.

Even if I'm not angry with you, I'm angry with myself, even Ichimoku, Maomao, and Six-legged They haven't been looked for, but you have made me look for them more than I can count. How much face does this person have, or how much he thinks his status is so high that no one can replace him, he has no guilt to embarrass me so much.

It's not such a man, not to mention that you're still an old man.

But I have to say...... Who made you yours and I am me!

No one asked me to look for you, and no one asked you to hide and wait for me to find you, one is willing to fight and the other is willing to suffer, if you don't make it clear, I will pretend to be confused.

It's like "passivity" has evolved into a "habit" in the repetition of day after day, always angry with you on the surface, but in my heart I will still downplay this willfulness that belongs to you, even if I have always been disgusted with you, what I see, what I hear, and what I smell with my nose are all shortcomings of your recruitment, but I think - no matter how many years and how many twists and turns it takes, I will eventually fall in love with you like that without warning, because in my opinion, every qiē is planned by someone.

And this abominable fellow arrogantly calls fate.

Like yesterday, stepping on the shallow and dark footprints again, I walked through the hallway in a rage to the door of the double bedroom with only one name engraved on the door, and I didn't even bother to stand still, and without even thinking about knocking, I kicked the already crumbling door in.

I didn't speak, ignoring the door that passed beautifully past the ear of the motionless man who was concentrating on painting, and walked straight behind the man and stood still, pinching my waist to create a quiet of anger.

Unfortunately, this man is very thick-skinned, and the so-called thick skin is not like Azario, who always thinks that people all over the world love him, but on the contrary, it is another symbiotic result caused by the long-term struggle between conceit and inferiority. I don't know him as a person, and I don't know which country's language and grammar I have to use to dissect this person, and I can't even discuss it, because he will always be unexpected, maybe his next sentence or next action will frighten you, and if it sounds good, it is his extraordinary, and if it is ugly, he is even more miserable than zero in terms of emotional intelligence, and he has been hovering and dying under the ordinate called "sleek".

I don't understand why not being good at management is called self-destruction, is it a big mistake to live freely and simply?

"Mr. Van Gogh, do you know what time it is?" I folded my arms, but the black tight-fitting suit outlined the curves of my beautiful body, and the lines combined with the heavy color blocks added to the cold color.

"Wait a minute, I'm still one step away."

I squinted as if I was about to poke a big hole in his back.

"Are you done, Mr. Van Gogh?" The last four notes are deliberately emphasized, and this is the most indifferent name I can think of.

At that time, when others talked about Vincent behind their backs, they called him "red-haired madman", but I thought it was the maintenance of their relationship, I grew up living with giant monsters, and in my opinion, the nickname they gave each other was the love language between family members, but this was indeed my misunderstanding, but the saddest thing was that I knew that it was a misunderstanding and knew it too late, so I led it later--except sadness or sadness.

"Alright." The man put the brush down contentedly, and then walked over to the wreckage of the door that had been left to the side, and put it together haphazardly, stacked it high, but still placed it on the wall, and did not try to repair it and put it back in place.

"Do you know what you forgot?"

"What?"

"Assemble!"

"Oh, yes."

I couldn't help but twitch the corners of my mouth slightly, and my messy eyelashes turned into flat corners.

I wouldn't ask him questions like "why not", but the previous interrogational questioning was enough to tell his inner entanglement, this man was afraid of communicating with people, and even the contact of eyes or sharing air would make him nervous.

What kind of life did he live?

I heard Azario say, the group of human beings I manage are all talented artists in the field of art during their lifetime, since they all have a common hobby, why can't this man fit into this group?

I don't understand, and I don't think it's reasonable, because my home used to be in a monster's lair.

"Is it interesting that you lock yourself in this room every day...... Or do you have obsessive-compulsive disorder? ”

"Interesting! Very interesting. ”

It's strange that I will tolerate this kind of unclear answer, "What good things can you draw in such a confined space with the curtains drawn?" ”

"Nature is here." He nodded his head and smiled at me lightly, but unfortunately he only laughed at me at a high frequency, but I only realized it in hindsight.

"Don't forget about it tomorrow, Mr. Van Gogh." I snorted and turned to walk out of the room, leaving him with a cool, thin back.

At night, I tossed and turned in bed, not sleepy at all.

Why do I think he's ridiculous?

Obviously, he felt that his actions overlapped with someone's figure......

What is it?

****

The midnight wind was cool, but I only felt hot, and after tossing back and forth several times, I still sat up, put on my night clothes and left the room.

It's been so long, time has been blurry with me, and I've managed to survive until now, with the night as my only support.

It is only at night that I am temporarily liberated, the one who is drunk with the smell of nightshade.

has no worries, and lives as much as you like than a real princess, all because of the protection of "mom and dad" by your side.

Sometimes, I really regret more and more why I didn't stay in that square house...... Wait a minute! It feels like Van Gogh is very similar to someone, but isn't that person myself?

It's like seeing his former self, and he stays in a room like that and doesn't come out...... Do you have the same reason as me?

By the time I came to my senses, I was already standing in front of Van Gogh's room.

The door is no longer there, so I thought I was the one who started the work.

There is no need to peek through the cracks, and you can see the situation inside in a clear and bright way.

Anyway, once my home didn't have a door!

Although it is a little different from the current situation...... I couldn't help but laugh, trying to cover my mouth, and finally I only leaked a little bit.

I poked my head in, and I was relieved to see the man on the bed who was not moving.

Walking softly in, and coming to the bedside, I saw that the man was still dressed in the same unkempt clothes as he had been during the day, and the shoes on his feet had not been taken off, and he was curled up in a ball on the bed.

The corners of the mouth taste complicated, either pity or distress, but I think, it will definitely not be disgust; Because he was so much like my "mom and dad", they were also huddled in a ball and surrounded me in a circle.

I shook my head, ending this almost ambiguous gaze, and as soon as I turned around, I noticed that the room was full of paintings.

Think about it, this is the first time to seriously look at this bedroom, except for the places that can't be touched, basically all hung with paintings, large and small, I don't know why, at this moment I suddenly remembered the family photo that I once painted on the wall with stones, and my heart suddenly hurt so much, it hurt so much that a typhoon roared.

What the hell is going on with this man? Why do I always have to relate to my memories?

The sour and astringent liquid at the bottom of the heart absorbs heat and turns into water vapor, rising to the upper layer of the chest, and the body cold and low temperature created by the habit of darkness make the volume of this water vapor shrink and the proportion increases, the steam falls, and when it encounters the high temperature of the fierce collision under the heart, it absorbs heat, rises again and meets the cold, and then falls, and so on, the concentration of sour and astringent gas becomes smaller, and finally concentrates in the bottom of the heart...... I raised my hand to my chest, trying to prevent the swirling pain from turning into a tornado and causing an uproar, I didn't want to be found out by others for most of the night not sleeping, but running to a man's room, this behavior is definitely of the type of speechless behavior.

Unconsciously, I've admired those paintings.

I see flowers and grasses, and his paintings are all-encompassing, but what I like the most is the stars and the moon, and things are always beautiful at night, I have always recognized it this way.

Will there be nightshade? I couldn't help but start looking for it with a state of anticipation, this long-lost mood was like the moment when I held Uncle Giant's hand in the tunnel for the first time and stepped on the miscanthus grassland.

Was this all what he imagined and painted in his room? Honestly, it's not bad......

Just thinking that tomorrow I could praise him indirectly and euphemistically, my eyes froze with the thoughts in my mind when I fell on a painting.

This is......

I saw the golden branches burning, and the tongues of fire were spinning, as if they were about to come out of the painting and burn me......

"Ahh I held my head and stared at the flower branches on the painting, as if I saw a group of figures in the fire, someone in the dark who forcibly grabbed me, tried to divert my eyes but could not do it, only to wail hysterically in the middle of the night.

In the first thousand years, the green silk is silky, and in the end, I am left alone and desolate, lonely and desolate. R1152