Every child is the most beautiful angel, watching our wings gradually turn into glazed tears on our faces. The river of time flows through. The youth under the eyebrows stops in this colorful rainy season. With mixed emotions, we hurriedly walked by, or when we stopped, we couldn't help but look back and look at the panicked footsteps, which were dotted with blur and soft, and then buried them deeply, plain and solid, no one would see them again.