His name is Park Jimin and there is nothing that he detests more than the dusk. His name is Park Jimin and there is nothing that he abhors more than the twinkling stars.
His name is Park Jimin and there is nothing that he hates more than the sky.
For many people, the sky meant freedom, meant flapping your wings and being a small part of the universe, a single grain of sand on a beach,
nothing but a speck of dust in a long-winding infinity. For others it was hope, nothing different than a wall on which you hang those you called dreams.
You would patiently wait for a shooting star, even as obscure as an idea that it was nothing but a falling, fiery ball of gas that you
could grant your wish. It was even weirder to wish upon a blinking star, hoping on a decaying matter, dying and pulsing at its last heart beat millions of years out of your grasp.
It was an irony, when a dying figure gave you hope in some incomprehensible, twisted way.
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