Under the boundless starry sky,
The name of Sunday is like a low cry,
Surrounded by fragmented thoughts,
Like cold broken ice, it is difficult to piece together a complete dream.

Fifteen pieces of impression remnants,
Like mottled graffiti on mottled walls,
The broken reflection of the broken mirror of desire,
Reflecting the indelible traces in the depths of the heart.

Sixty-five pieces of a chordal illusion,
A suppressed melody,
Struggling to find an exit.
Three hundred and eighty thousand credit points,
A silent weight, weighing heavily on the shoulders.

The trace materials are like traces on the wasteland,
The remnants of the same wish are silent calls;
The fragments of thoughts, the broken mirror of desire, and the remnants of impressions,
Are those broken dreams and persistence.
The cloud notes, the sky bars, and the music from the sky,
Are floating notes, looking for light in the darkness.
Three million credits are a cold and heavy burden.

Skill materials are like hammers that keep hitting,
Thought fragments, cloud notes, and space bars,
Tempering the soul and strength of the character.
The light cone “flight back to the earth” is a ray of dawn,
Shining gently in the ice and snow.

Treabar is the only warm place,
Guarding broken dreams,
Let Sunday no longer walk alone.

Growth is a dialogue between ice and light,
It is a cycle of breaking and rebirth,
At the end of the Star Dome Railway,
It will eventually turn into the glory of freedom.