Ideal in the West Wind

About This Novel

Late autumn has passed, and it has become gray outside the window. There is no such rich color, nor that sense of prosperity. This big sycamore tree has begun to shed all its leaves, waving its branches arrogantly in the west wind, as if it wants to seize the splendor of midsummer and even restore its green uniform. Maybe I don't care at all, I just pretend to be sorry like some of us, but in fact I don't care at all about the passing of time.

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