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野鸢尾在我痛苦的尽头曾有一扇门。听我把话说完:那个被你叫作死亡的东西我还记得。头顶上,一片嘈杂,松枝摇曳。而后悄然无声。羸弱的阳光在干燥的地面上忽闪忽现。可怕的是作为意识存活
Iris had a door at the end of my pain. Listen to my words: the one you called death I remember. Overhead, a noisy, pine branches swaying. Then quietly silent. Weak sunlight flickering on the dry ground. Terrible is to survive as a conscious