What I write is also some of my experiences, or the people and things around me, or some fictitious plots. What life gives us is just one story after another. In the stories, we wander around and pass each other. In the end, we sigh and we wake up.
Those youthful and frivolous past, those ignorant loves, those pure and flawless feelings, those pasts that we cannot go back to, are all very precious in this materialistic era.