Who knows the heart of the prodigal son?

Young years are always wasted because of love. It is rare to give all your heart. You are still lingering in front of a flower you met, but you can no longer find a clean and relaxed smile; you are still intoxicated by a strong glass of wine, but you can no longer feel the heartbreaking burning; you have lost sight of it. After finding their way out of nowhere, they can no longer struggle out of the quagmire of strangers. The love that blooms only once will bloom in another color even if it falls to another land. The addictive liquor slowly slides down your throat. The first swallow always brings bursts of heat. The more you drink, the weaker the liquor becomes, or the lighter it feels. Looking through the mortal world, I let the Sanskrit words under Bodhi soothe my soul. A flower is a world, a leaf is a Bodhi, color is all things, and the four elements are empty. I thought I could let go, but a drop of tear made me rise again on the mirror stage. waves. Probably this is how love begins and ends, flowing with the young years.