It Turns Out That the Moon Lied

About This Novel

I gently held the pen and wrote down what was on my mind. Those stories, as the pages turned out page by page, would eventually become what I could answer in conversation and laughter: they are just stories on paper. Those sporadic words, the personality in the eyes of others, the whole life judged by a few words, those efforts that were denied lightly, those stories and thoughts that I secretly hidden, along with the right and wrong that always hover in my memory, I quietly opened the dusty memory and wrote the story. Time says: It's all its fault, memory also says: It's all its fault,

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