I want to pick up the lost time piece by piece and polish it, but I also know that they will eventually flow through my palms and cannot be kept. So writing becomes a kind of gentle resistance, retrieving the sunken past between words and pressing pause for the fleeting moment. Words are like knotting knots to record events - each article is a small knot, tying a period of time that can't bear to be let go. When you read a certain sentence, your heart suddenly softens. That is his time, impartial and passing right into your heart.
Purpose: Having experienced college entrance examination/campus love, I can relate to the regrets of youth