One second, one minute, day after day, passing through the fingers, year after year, have you seen our changes, how many times the washing of tears has made today's heart, who can present the world seen from the eyes of an eighteen-year-old, what can be said about the life of an eighteen-year-old because it is short and has no say... Written at the end of the eighteen-year-old, I wrote it to the past eighteen years. At the age of eighteen, there is no need for gorgeous rhetoric to modify it, no need to be exaggerated, no need to be pretentious, I write it to myself, and to each of us who are eighteen years old. . .