"This is the morning I must be awake" is the other three

"Under the Neon Light"

I would be at the intersection, running, looking, and standing still

The world is in the back, on the wipers of the car

You don't understand that you gave him everything

He has not given you love

The wind swirls on your forehead, and dreams are hidden in your pockets

Here in the spring, I can hang my hair down

Like a willow tree, the river glows, and I will take you off

Somewhere deep in me to drive away, night and night can seduce each other

Those trees that stop thinking, in the rain, rarely speak

The father you remember is a blanket

It was a quaint old blanket at night in my room

My notes, there is snow in the north with people in the south

My heart shook like a wind and a newspaper at the crossroads

My poems have a medicinal smell, and you use memories and swallows

"This is the morning I must wake up"

Hold up a hot potato and hide the wind in your pocket

Singing nursery rhymes in Mandarin, time just stopped so slowly

Someone rushed to a place I didn't recall

What grandmother said, what flew in front of my window

I just stared at the diary and waited for it to grow

The river and the fluffy dream, he always insisted on letting me out

Leave everything I love

He said that youth should be linked to money, and words are like weeds

It should be cut off, and in winter, it can be burned with fire

But spring is already frantically converging outside the window

The bearded man is not far down the mountain

This is the morning in which I must be awake

The sober people were downstairs, yawning over and over again

"I'm at the Window"

Now I should know, and I'll tell you. tale

The story begins with my bones

It has palaces, princes and white flowers......

But I know some are not true, like flowers in the fog

She was walking outside the car window, and the north wind was blowing, making a series of sounds

Life is like a car, so many years

I was all by the window, watching the sunset

So many faces and so many burning chimneys

The birds flying through the sky are not very smart birds

You're sitting in a row of chairs behind me, flipping through a dictionary

I look in my pocket for the sunshine of my childhood

Little by little, they are quietly dispersing, scattering

Under the eaves, he resembles a crow, which reminds me of Leonardo da Vinci's frescoes

"The speed of the car slowed down, and the people around me disappeared"

That's what I have to face

But today, I'm avoiding them all

"The words I write are like lice"

The words I wrote were like lice, lice in the countryside when I was a child

Actually, I don't remember, my mother said she knew

It's like grains of rice, hidden deep in your hair

Spend time with memories and feed on fragments

My recollection, there is always a little less about you

I'm looking for a place in the afternoon, or

Let a place wait for me quietly, where is it

My father talked about a man who became a village official in his twenties

I'm still in my room, going over and over the notes

Tear life into flakes and into shreds

At night, as many people laugh as they grieve and laugh

I can hang my hair, dress up as a beggar, dress up as a tree

That's when someone came to me

Said to give me her number, my notepad

It's all under the bed, and every night, it's full of dreams