# data[].attributes.body
A magnificent creature drowning in its drowsiness. His posture is one that has never been seen by the human world. Its fur bends slightly as the wind rustles through its body, sending fresh, cool and comfortable May breezes through its body, effectively cooling it down in the Beijing weather. His fur is untidy. Dirty, to say the least. Its fur is the emblem and the living evidence of this magnificent creature's countless battles with the dog on the other side of the fence and the vast number of expeditions he has hosted in the dirt of his backyard, searching for traces of newly planted vegetables and immediately wrecking it. Its face is jerked to one side, perhaps showing his fatigue towards his adventures whilst showing superiority. Yes, he is the king of this backyard. All animals pay homage to this great beast, and all the insects and arachnids are merely loyal subjects to this king. His stature is like Alexander the Great, his cold-bloodedness and iron fist policies involving the policy on backyard wreckage give one the impression of Otto von Bismarck, and his might and wits in these expeditions could be compared to Roald Amundsen. Yes, no animal, plant or fungi could overthrow him in this 50-meter square of land.

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The sky is a barrier, painted with strokes of blue, a streak of white, and a hint of blue. It keeps us hidden, away from the outer world that we have forsaken. The earth is our prison yard, keeping us distracted until our sentences are finally carried out. The streetlamps, gates, and trees are all just distractions, an illusion to keep us from wondering about the outside. The air that we breathe is just a poisonous gas, slowly taking our lives.
We are reborn into this new world, and the past is behind us. Punishments fill every street corner and every building, lurking in the shadows, waiting to catch unsuspecting prey. Even in this second chance, corruption and greed fill the atmosphere. Every single prisoner trying to be better than each other. Life in this prison is a competition, with people doing whatever it takes to cross the finish line first. There have been many who have tried to escape this prison, but they have all been unsuccessful. The illusions that paint the landscape are too strong for any normal mortal to pass. As the days go on, the creator of this prison loses faith, as this crime-ridden world continues to hurt itself from the inside, causing pain all over the world.

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It was early in the morning, the world was covered with mist like a shy woman wearing a semi-transparent mask. The sun had just risen slowly and carefully over the eastern horizon, trying not to disturb most of the people still indulging in sleep. The golden red cross through the clouds and went through the sky. The lakes, the trees and flowers looked as if they were all gilded and dressed up. The ground was covered with tender grass, on whose blades some dew drops were glistening under the sunshine. A gentle breeze came up, wrinkling the surface of the lake with the fresh smell of flowers and woods bringing us the first vivid moment of the day.

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It was early in the morning, the whole garden was covered with mist like a shy woman wearing a semi-transparent mask. The sun was just creeping out of the eastern horizon and golden red was penetrating through the white clouds and across the sky. The lakes, the trees and flowers looked as if they were all gilded. The ground was covered with tender grass, on whose blades some dew drops were glistening under the sunshine. A gentle breeze came up, wrinkling the surface of the lake with the fresh smell of flowers and woods.

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The ancient building was surrounded by the newborn offspring of the Earth. The building seems less lonely with all of them around. The building was old as if it been through countless hazards. The walls seems so weak that it would shatter at any second. The bush around the house seems so fragile and crusty, it stands its last hope of survival while drowning in the sea of green armies. The sun had enchanted the armies with power but applied even more struggle to the roof. The house looked as if it could no longer settle.
Inside the house is the darkest part of it. It is like the black hole, where even light could not escape. The fence is the cage which bolts the corruption of the house inside. The wooden fence seems like a minion in front of the house, but it could strap around it like a snake slowly choking its prey. The house is mostly hollow, the doors and windows are poorly maintained with walls falling apart.

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He stands misleadingly motionless, as the sun emerges over the horizon and as it flickers its last light beneath the mountains.  There is no space for failure, he stretches out, miles and miles. A constant battle, held by the shackles of the line that is extended from him to his brothers. A ceaseless pushing at full throttle to achieve results, to strive for the very best. Placed on this earth just for one job. Within him is the blood that courses through the veins.  Inconsistency, A to C, then right back again. A perpetual pendulum (hah u get it to cause like A.C current). His wires which run within and pulled too tight, spread so paper-thin. A multitude of bolts and screws held his fragmented, triangular pieces.
The environment around him is serene. The leaches that use his power as they admire everything. They gawk at the hues that stain the sky as they zoom past. They stare in awe at the lungs of the earth, as its branches reach out. They appreciate everything but him.

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In this rundown corner of the wall, there hangs a pot of flowers. A cascade of purple and pink seems to spill out, providing a stark contrast to the bleak, mundane wall. It is all topped off with a dash of white, blue, and yellow. The pot creaks as if it is on the verge of tipping and falling. But it hangs on. Hanging on, despite the many years of rain wearing away its metal skin. It holds up the weight of the soil and flowers with seemingly no effort.

Underneath, a forest of greenery sprouts from the earth. Several different plants race to see who can climb the highest, who can bloom the biggest flower, waiting for a pedestrian to pause and say, "My, what a beautiful flower." Sadly, they forget that when a flower becomes too beautiful, it gets ripped from the stem and is kept in a glass vase until it withers and dies. A beautiful flower's life is like an explosion, shining at its brightest for an oh-so-brief moment until it is plucked and dies. In fighting to be the best flower, they sacrifice all too much. I suppose, the trick is to not regret the choices you make along the way.

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The sky is like a child who is just awake. His face is messy as if he hasn't had time to wash it yet. By the white little trace of toothpaste near his mouth, you can tell that he definitely also forgot to wipe his mouth after brushing his teeth.
The lake is a mirror of this child. From the little creatures and plants lying on the surface of the lake, you can tell that the child rarely cleans his mirror. You can also tell that the child barely uses his mirror, or else he will easily find out that he forgot to wipe his mouth before he went to play.
He is very naughty. Sometimes, he blows the hair of the willow trees. The long emerald hair of the willow tree flutters with his exhalation. Sometimes, he plays with his watercolour paint. He likes to paint every tree trunk white. Sometimes, he also plays with the birds.

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With the setting sun came a sky of fire, the orange gold colour stretches far and wide, the colour of fire hearths and tangerines. As if God graffitied rainbow-flame upon the evening sky, the sunset came in its boldest blaze. The endless amount of flawless shades took over the sky, flooding the sky with warm, vibrant colours. The golden beams were radiating all around just like rays from the heavenly bodies we adore after nightfall. It is the reflection of the dawn, it’s a reminder that the day has gone past to prepare you for the night to come.

The loud screech of brakes broke this tranquil scenery. The chaos of cars madly attempting to avoid hitting each other froze the rush hour traffic to a standstill in pure fear. In an instant of extreme paranoia everyone sat in their cars, too frozen with fear to move again. Seconds later, we hear drivers lashing out at each other, the honking noises from the cars filling the streets. Finally the traffic began to move forward, reminding us to forget the traumatising event that happened minutes before.

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A cloistered princess, trapped in her castle walls, held hostage by a maddened king. Once the mighty walls proved to be a refuge from the outside world's discourse, wicked politics, and raging wars. But now it seemed more like an impenetrable barrier, holding unknown truths on the other side, she will never know the other side. Where else but the outside world does the princess' thoughts adrift, for even if curiosity killed the cat, is it not better having died knowing the warmth of the open sun than to cower and wither away in the darkness? Yes, she knows not of the violence, the grief, or the despair of our world; but similarly knows nothing of how the gentle touch contrasts a hard strike, how great grief can only be found in the wake of powerful love, or how despair seems negligible in the presence of hope. She lay by the window sill, giggling, dreaming of life beyond the encroaching walls, a daring (most importantly dashing) knight to save her from her prison, and together they'd live a life happily ever after. Amidst the town, she would hear the songs of drunken old fools, wallow in the luscious meadows, partake in the heat of dancing, breathe the gypsy air, and maybe even live through the wilderness of danger. But well, not any time soon; so she sighs a deep breath and returns to the depths of her impossible labyrinth, a plague of hope slowly infecting her.

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Beijing is art in the making. The long dry canvas has been wetted with a shower of mist, and unwanted shades are swept away. As I watched, I wasn’t sure when it happened, but there were now a few shades and tints. The white had started to show signs of blue. A small patch of a blur of green also sprouted. Yet, it didn’t take long before it became a field of greens. Splashes of green were added, in blotches at a time. And soon, different hues and tints of green had taken over the canvas. If you looked closely, you’d see specks of yellows, pinks, violets and whites.  Sometimes they were big, sometimes they were small, but no matter what size, they had suddenly made the entire painting full of vibrancy. By now, a beautiful cerulean had appeared and stretched over all the other colors. As I admired this amazing sight, a drift of white flecks flew. A scene almost like a blizzard that whirled upwards. Sadly, it was almost a dream because with a wash of water, it was gone. Days, and days have passed, yet they only feel like minutes. With a ray of golden sunshine, collage of indescribable colors have sprung seemingly out of nowhere. I am speechless, as I stand in awe of this masterpiece.

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As I strolled down the meandering pavements in my compound, I marveled at the hairs of nature: trees. Sprouting up in different lengths and directions, the hairs of the planet earth thrives, covering the scalp of the crust with teeming life. Yet, hairs can’t grow forever. Humans, as barbers, trim down the long strands of plantations with our sharp scissors. We’re not good barbers, though; the Earth never asked for a buzz cut, but we did so anyway. The benevolent customer, however, didn’t say a word.

By stapling firm, metallic hairpins in the form of skyscrapers and blocks of apartments, we bad barbers try to cover up the damage that we’d done to poor Earth’s head. We realize that this method actually works quite well, and so we put more in, and more, and a bit more, until places that used to be hair are now also bald. At this point I’m struggling to squeeze out another sentence and this metaphor is getting out of hand and I'm trying but I don't think it's helping. I can do this. Yes I can and I will. Now, though we may have caused the earth to bald, the hairs have not given up.

In every corner of the scalp, hairs are endeavoring to push past the concrete walls of hairpins and break to the surface. In some places, they've succeeded; there the hairs gasp for fresh air, and bathe day and night in nutrients and oxygen, vowing to grow long and strong so that one day, one day, they will reconquer the scalp of the Earth. I cannot help but pray, too, that one day the Earth and its persistent hairs can vanquish baldness.

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Every morning, I wake up and peer outside to witness the site of the massacre. The debris lies still; still as the randomly configured wood planks as they rest like dead bodies. They accompany the soil, where they exchange their everlasting thoughts.

They reminisce of the times when they were treasured and respected by the builders who were sculpting them into a building of grandeur and magnificence. Now, however, they were nothing. They were disregarded by society just as the rest of the wood were destroyed in the demolition. They were left behind by time, to simply remain outside their past, lying until they corrode.

The concrete stares at the duo converse, and cringes, with laughter exuding from its pores. It was disgusted at their vulgarity. To it, they were like vagrants—those vagrants who stay in orderly homes and never leave.

Occasionally, a swallow would swoop down and rest its claws on the rotting wood and let out a shrieking cry. The wood would shrivel up in pain, and stare at the bird in envy. It notices the bird’s calm disposition and sighs, reminded of its own perpetual solitude.

They were the impurity in a reaction, the incongruous in a congregation, and the despised in a society. Yet, they remain. They remain because they were ignored yet valued. They remain because they were forgotten yet remembered. They remain because they were hated yet loved.

# data[].attributes.body
Walking along the cold humid and windy path we can feel the painful swap in our mouths.  The sky is my watercolour palette, I can create a mixture of grey with a hint of blue from Beijing's gloomy sky. Pouring rain from yesterday washed off some of the dustiness over the sky.  Day by day the emerald tree sprouts cross the sky to cover the dusky painting. Lurking over everyone's head squinting their eyes to spy on their lives, they are the grey tall Argos on Earth. Triggering our curiosity, we wonder what mystical adventure would be waiting for us behind the fences. Our one and only delivery (kuaidi) man on a motorcycle, thoroughly driving to reach his destination. Risking their lives, they slowly moved across the street away from Argos’s unclosed eyes. Getting goosebumps, dripping down their sweats they slowly run away from the grey giant. The eyes of Argos never close. A small white crosswalk for people to walk over is a trap that the giant has made, waiting for those to get lost. Rows and rows of bicycles represent those who have disappeared into the mystical utopia. Running away from the fantasies we safely managed to come back to the reality.

# data[].attributes.body
Day after day, night after night, the queue is a python that never retreats. It snaps its teeth at time, tearing it to pieces, and spitting out only fragments of the day. The python's tail swishes with rage, knocking its victims in place. Line up. Line up. Line up. We will never be free from its scaly grasp; we are in the python's world now, rooted to the floor, never moving, never ending...

Etc etc... yours should be longer! 200-300 words.