What are dreams made of? Sweat, talent, talent... Or money?
When Huai Yifei stepped into the studio for the first time, he felt the spotlight shining on him was particularly dazzling.
From the Waking of Insects to the Summer Solstice, one hundred and nine days of completely closed draft life, with all kinds of people coming and going, but he could only remember the boy sitting on the wooden bed in the dormitory, gently reminding him not to scare the birds on the branches.
Bai Qingle, Bai Qingle. The man lives up to his name - he pours a cup of floating cypress leaves and sits quietly facing the plum blossoms.
Qingle, Qingyue.
If a powerless person wants to be on stage, he or she needs to put in hundreds or thousands of times more effort without being seen. During the painful and long creative life, only in the atrium of the dormitory could one catch a glimpse of the sky.
But it was at such a helpless age that Huai Yi Fei met that distinctive bright moon.
"Xiaohuai, I like your name very much."
"Just like the stars in the sky, there are infinite possibilities."
[OE, a super short story, the first, middle and next three chapters are finished in one go.
Intention: Dreams and fate will not turn into empty talk
