Waiting is a self-woven net, a self-inflicted punishment.

I kept standing by the window listening to the sound of horses' hooves.

I forbade myself to move a step, I didn't even dare to take a sip of water, and I didn't talk to the people around me.

I have long bound myself to the same static posture. Like a person who has already been sentenced to death and is still waiting for the announcement of when the execution will be announced.

I couldn't feel anything but scorching.

As long as there is the slightest unusual sound in the wind and rain outside, my first instinctive impulse is to "recognize".

I couldn't wait to hope that it was the sound of the signal from the Huangsang Valley, and if it was not, I felt a certain anger at the source of the sound, and if it was not the voice that represented all your peace, why should it wake me up.

The process of waiting is full of a sense of loss of control over fate.

The anxiety of waiting, like the anxiety of life when it smells of imminent death, cannot be overcome.

Because every minute of waiting will cause serious epilepsy of the self, so I think there is no difference between making an expectant person wait for a long time and cutting her with a knife.

I looked at the soldiers in the room, some of them were talking to each other, some were wiping their weapons, some were stirring the flames, and I knew they were waiting. - But they're not waiting like I did!

Long after your death, out of some long-standing habit, I sometimes can't help but fall into such a wait.

Although my waiting has lost the object. I'm still in the habit of using some kind of delirium to make communion with your God.

It's like a person who has just been amputated in a war and can still feel the presence of a lost stump.