Black tar

I have decided to keep a diary, then I have neglected that intention; then I retrieved it from its lonely corner, and dusted it off, looking at a sprightly cover that hid the melancholy inside. There was no real sadness, but no authentic joy either. It was a book which I relegated to my darkest thoughts in my darkest hours, which are marred with bright spots. Because there exist people who refuse to let one of their kind go to waste, or darken his hours with a charcoal pen.

But similarly there exist people who not only give you thick charcoal markers but also spray fixatives such that your whiteboard is vandalised, and permanently so. It would seem as though their lives depend on it. They may not do it intentionally, rather, most of the time they spread their pessimism around them unknowingly, marking their territory, and invading yours.

P.S. 小明还在休假。