The past and present life in Sanmao's text are like phantoms, always by your side, but the scene has changed a little.
Under the bright moon, in the wilderness, on the side of the lake, human figures are floating, constantly.
The grass is tall, soft and has a green smell.
That woman was as angry as a gossamer, sad and sad.
That man was heartbroken and desperate.
The stories in my heart are innate, but unfortunately every time the words always drift away from the original direction.
That moonlit night is always in my heart.