The most sentimental script leaves behind only pale and shallow vanity in the end

In this world we are lonely, and there are always things we cannot say to each other, things we cannot do, and at such times we need a pot of flowers.

Life cannot be called anything but boring; soaring thoughts and running footsteps always grow tired in time, the funniest jokes end in hollow sighs, and the most sentimental scripts leave behind only pale and shallow vanity in the end. At such times, you plant a pot of flowers in silence.

Life is dry and dull, but it can add color to your black and white; it is empty and hollow, but it can fill a pale and powerless life with fragrance; sorrows unknown to others it carries down to the ground, quietly turning into spring mud.

Why not plant a pot of flowers? It is the diary of your soul, and it will quietly tell heaven and earth.

One day we will all grow old, and they will carry our youth and stubbornly continue it; one day we will all pass away, and they will use their bodies to record our stories, using full bloom and blossoming to tell the people who come later of the traces that we were here, using fallen leaves and petals to tell every passerby of the you that once was and the traces that once were.

We all need to plant a pot of flowers, not because it needs you, but because deep in the soul it will be your only one.