Suddenly I wanted to write a warm and clichéd story, just like in the dusty old movies, those people have exaggerated expressions, thick colors, slow and reserved, and can't say, I love you.
How reliable is memory? I look at you from a distance, watching you change the world, not remembering my existence in every reincarnation, and every life I meet you, I wonder in vain which side of your soul is this.
The Forgotten River water and the flowers on the other side are nothing more than cliché decorations. Before I crossed that barrier, I decided whether to forget it. But after taking that step, I took thousands of steps along the way, and every step tore off was a mark in my heart. Even if I reach the end and I am alone, and there is no longer your shadow in my soul, so what? When I forget you, I forget myself.