Boating on the Hanhai Sea

Memory is like a yellowed old photo. The corners are gently turned up by the wrinkles of time. Some places are blurred like water marks, and some outlines appear extremely clear in the darkroom of memory. Life is originally composed of these clear or fuzzy memory fragments connected together into a long shot. I often find those "click" moments when I'm sorting out old things late at night: the melancholy of youth is hidden in the tea-stained graduation photos; a letter from home records the glory of youth; an old piece of clothing that I can't bear to throw away is tied to countless disappearing daily routines; old scarves and old felt hats are the unspoken shadows soaked in the blurred sections.