The decline of the white flower, the obsession behind the pure mask.

The white flower was held in the top of the company by a high-heavy male, who collapsed at the moment of the day, breathing heavily close to her ear, whispering to her, asking why she was always hiding her white dress in the night, with her hands holding his collar in her arms, panicking, with a glimpse of hope, the city lights flashing out of the window, the distance between the two, as if the air had been strung up and her cheeks could be stunned at any time, and the master's hands slid to her waist, and her eyes were always locked in her eyes and she wouldn't let go.