[I only have one rose in my pocket, and the journey is steep and the road is long]
In the late summer of 1989, the sycamore leaves at Jiangnan Cotton Mill Middle School began to turn yellow.
He would always get on the 28th big bar at dusk. After the car bell rang three times, the man would rush down from the tube building and jump onto the back seat easily. They rode along the textile road to the riverside and watched the white sails of the cotton ships soaked by the setting sun. There is a torn piece of homework paper sandwiched in the old textbook, and the pen writing has smeared through the back: "When I am admitted to the Academy of Fine Arts..."
There are crescent-shaped blue ink marks on the first page of the sketchbook, like the bad wine I secretly tasted that year spilled on my collar. He learned to hide hot aluminum lunch boxes in enamel jars to keep them warm, learned to pretend to pick up rubber when passing notes in morning reading classes, and learned to record "Love Song 1990" using old equipment from the factory radio station - little did he know at the time that this tape would become the only physical evidence ten years later.
Until the flashlight light pierced the warehouse on a rainy night, and two acceptance letters gathered dust on the window sill. He watched the other person squatting in front of the public faucet to rinse the canvas shoes, and the soap suds covered with blood went into the drain. One morning, a bicycle ticket suddenly appeared on the bottom of the chest of drawers, and under the pillow lay a half-page book of resignation wrinkled with tears.
Fifteen years later, in a used bookstore on the Left Bank in Paris, he accidentally opened a photo album published in China. On page 37, there is a yellowed bicycle seat with a dried rose on it.
Conception:.
