A few days ago, they saw with their own eyes the moment when a poet wrote "star trails are like braids", the stars really began to weave into the shape of braids.
In the last darkness before dawn, the moment when starlight falls into the wine glass.
In the distance, on the other side of the horizon, people were preparing to board the ship. They looked tired, some were carrying large and small bags, some were fanning themselves to make ice, trying to cool down, or some were hugging each other tightly, nervously waiting for the arrival of the destined moment.
And here, in the dying sanctuary of old physics, old-school scientists stubbornly count the stars—they witness the afterglow of the stars as if they were collecting the ashes of their lifelong beliefs.
They made no preparation to board the ship, like grains of sand waiting to be blown away by the wind.
Not everyone is willing to go to the new world. Those who miss their homeland, those who share the same fate, and those whose faith is broken, prefer to stay in their abandoned homeland, in this destined desolate cemetery.
This is an absurd world, but also a world that people are nostalgic for.
When the first star began to fall, they all raised their heads and drank, lighting the beer in their hands.
"——Cheers to Dean Carr!" A bearded man raised his glass: "When that drunk jumped off the Brooklyn Building a few years ago, did he ever think that we would choose a more magnificent death?"
Everyone clinked their glasses and the wine splashed.
Someone started playing the guitar. It was an old white-haired man named Old Mike. He wore a linen baseball cap and a brown shorts, and sang Rowatha's ballad. His rough fingers plucked the guitar strings, and the moonlight swayed at the bottom of the whiskey bottle.
"Ah, my dear friend, today I am going to sail away, today I am going to sail away!?"
"To the reef port that the poets of Lovasa cannot find, to the pasture that cannot be stained black by ink!?"
"Bluebells grow in the cracks of the starry sky. Some poet said this is the growth of romance?"
"But do we remember that 230 years ago, the dew there once wet our data notebooks?..."
At this moment, laughter sounded in Isabella's ears.
A young man wearing a white mask walked out of the vortex, the mask dripping with bright red paint, his body surrounded by a colorful halo, accompanied by an extremely shrill laugh.
"The fourth story." The young man muttered to himself calmly.
People were stunned for a moment, but instead of being scared, they raised their glasses and invited the stranger to join them.
"Ms. Bella, is this your friend?" they asked curiously.
"Ms. Bella is so popular, she really has friends everywhere."
Su Mingan gently covered his nose with the smell of wine and looked at Isabella.
(End of this chapter)
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