I always get stuck when I pick up my pen. Thousands of words hang on my fingertips, unable to make a decent beginning. So they retreated into the heart and turned into countless tiny ants, gnawing away day after day, slowly corroding, until the softest place was finally hollowed out. We were too young at that time and thought that time was an endless thread. People we missed today could meet again tomorrow. Later I learned that when some people walk past you, they really walk past you, without looking back or in the future.
