Wounds of Youth

About This Novel

Her voice was hoarse, spreading in the March night, and the transparent voice seemed to be covered with light sand. The setting sun slanted across the eaves of the corridor, and she stood in the light and shadow. I couldn't see her face, but I could feel the sadness on her face, rippling in the wind. I ran hard chasing the train, my long hair flying gently in the wind. All the helplessness and sadness merged into rivers and slipped out of the eyes. The little girl selling balloons gave me a watercolor pen and asked me to write blessings on the balloons. I remember what I wrote: one room, two people, three meals, four seasons of wind and rain... Every love leaves a wound, making youth mottled day by day. Every page of text gives you a sad beauty, heartache, but you can't stop reading!

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