I have always wanted to find a man who is like a mountain, not a prodigal like you, but my men are always prodigals one after another. I always tell myself that this is the last one, but it has become an addiction. I was hurt everywhere and despaired of myself. I can only let myself fall asleep without looking at the bleak road ahead. But when you wake up, you stand there, like the sea or the mountain.
Why amnesia? I want to plant seeds again, germinate again, and bloom again. I want to abandon myself, those suspicions, those worries about gains and losses, those inferiorities, and those self-righteousness. I just want to be naked and opposite to you.
You in front of me are no longer the singing boy who asked me to put down all my thoughts and enjoy myself in time, but the vicissitudes of the old man who is telling a fairy tale. This story is very long and long, and it seems that there is no ending moment.
You said, this time, you are willing to listen to me, and even want me to tell you about the past. You said, you are no longer a bystander, seeing yourself heartbroken and hurting me to the point of dying.