This is a biography of a woman. We don't know where we come from, nor where our love belongs. In the long river of human history, we are just a bunch of colors that have been wantonly wrapped up, and the glory of the past has also been annihilated. If all history and architecture, including us, belong to men, then what else do we have? It's just the scene in the late spring and early summer of that year, an oriole singing on the branch outside the window, the disturbing scene -
Old dreams fly into ashes
