This is about those old millet and rotten pockmarks in Nanjing.
How difficult it is to gently pick them up and expose them to the sun.
Our love,
sweet and secret,
Passionate and forbearing.
So much so that when I returned to Nanjing again after a long time,
I thought I would forget those things if I deliberately forgot about them,
But memory is a disobedient child,
It bursts from my chest,
Made me cry.
This is a diary from the past,
torn to pieces by me, or burned,
Already in pieces,
At this moment, I quietly and carefully sewed it up.
Just to give myself an explanation,
The emotional explanation that actually exists.
Conception: