In the once vigorous, absurd and confusing love, you thought he was your world. Losing him made your heart twist like a knife, and life would be worse than death. One day many years later, I occasionally missed him in those fresh or unbearable memories. I could no longer remember his appearance. Love, hate, parting, grudges, and resentments finally waited until the day I could bear it. I could ignore or even forget it, but it existed. Youth, Song of Weiyang, burned the years, and the red flowers on the other side spread out into long memories. We don't owe anyone anything. We can't reach the end. We can't see the origin and end. At the beginning of the story, you think of yourself. The end of the story has nothing to do with you. It's just a story, and your life is not over yet. To be continued. . . .