故事
人们总是会被故事吸引。
刺激的、感伤的、震撼的、醉人的......故事的种类实在太多，只要不同的人们还期盼下去，就会一直出现不同的故事吧。
对于这些期盼着故事的人本身，自然也会有不同的看法浮现。
有些人会说，他们就像猫咪，野兽，或飞蛾。
追逐怎么也抓不到的玩具，沿着似有若无的腥气一路奔袭，被那用言语和幻象作光作线编织而成的网捕获。
即使玩具从未到手，路径涂满鲜血，线与网巧妙收束的尽头也只是又一张网，仍然心甘情愿走上前来将自己如纸一般铺开，任故事讲述者——或者说“骗子”——手执由谎言打造的画笔，在其中勾勒上称心的涂鸦。
至于涂鸦究竟是何色彩，是何形状，是用何种材料，何种手法画成......通常只是被遗忘的无趣细枝末节罢了。
但是这又有什么关系呢？大家喜欢涂鸦。
喜欢那随着笔触起伏的每一次脉搏，喜欢它与自己的纸相合的感觉，纸终于不再无色，终于与有同样色彩的人相通，终于不再独自漂浮于斑斓的世间，凝视那炫目色彩时获得的每一次喘息机会，是多么令人神往啊。
这难道不就够了吗？
毕竟，大家只是想感到自己还活着，可以活着，能继续活下去而已，这又有什么错呢？
当沙漠降下甘霖，又有哪个饱受干枯之苦的人，会不选择追随呢？
至于流下的是清泉还是毒液，奇迹的另一边是永恒荒漠还是寥寥人烟，施予这奇迹的究竟是何人——又有什么关系呢？奇迹就是奇迹。
人们是为故事而来的，也只为故事而来。
而这大概也是故事讲述者梦寐以求的吧。
毕竟，真相并不重要，只有故事会留于人心。不被听取和相信的真相，就什么也不是——
咚咚。门被敲响了。
人影抬起头。
“故事结束了么？这次可得让反对派闭嘴。”
“马上就好，嗯......这个词改一下，发言的说服力会更强吧。”
People are always drawn to stories.
Thrilling, sentimental, shocking, intoxicating... the variety of stories is truly endless. As long as different people continue to yearn for them, different stories are bound to keep emerging.
For those who yearn for stories themselves, naturally, different opinions will emerge as well.
Some might say they're like cats, beasts, or moths.
Chasing toys that can never be caught, hurtling along fishy scents that seem be there yet also not, ensnared by nets that are woven with words as thread, and illusions as light.
Even if the toy never comes into one's hands, the path is stained with blood, the cleverly closed loop of thread and net leads only to another net, yet one still willingly steps forward, spreading oneself out like paper, letting the storyteller—or rather, the “liar”—wield a brush forged from lies, sketching satisfying doodles within.
As for what colors the doodles actually are, what shapes they take, what materials they're made of, what techniques were used... these are usually just forgotten, uninteresting details.
But what does it matter? People love doodles.
Love each pulse that rises and falls with the stroke of the pen, love the feeling of it merging with their paper. The paper finally stops being colorless, finally connects with someone who shares its hues, and finally no longer drifts alone in this dazzling world. Each relaxing breath caught while gazing at those stunning colors—how enchanting it is.
Isn't that enough?
After all, everyone just wants to feel that they are still alive, that they can live, that they can keep on living. What's wrong with that?
When the desert receives rainfall, who among those suffering from parched land would not choose to follow?
As for whether what flows is clear spring or poisonous venom, whether the other side of the miracle is an eternal desert or sparse human habitation, and who exactly bestows this miracle,——does it really matter? A miracle is a miracle.
People come for the story, and only for the story.
And this is probably also the dream of every storyteller.
After all, the truth does not matter, only the story will remain in people's hearts. A truth that isn't heard or believed is equivalent to nothing—
Knock knock. Someone knocked on the door.
The figure looked up.
“Is the story finished? This time we'll shut the opposition up.”
“Almost done. Hmm... If this word is changed, the speech will be more persuasive.”