When everything is lost, I realize that memories are too easy to hurt.
It lurks in your dreams, wandering around, just like that, inadvertently, stinging you, and then disappears.
When you pick up the cold coffee, when you suddenly wake up from a dream in the middle of the night, when you dig out the old books from those years, those memories are as bitter as the coffee, as lonely as the late night, and as vicissitudes of life as the yellowed pages.
Then, as I recall the memories over and over again, I feel that I am slowly getting older.