The works I once made when I was seventeen seem a bit childish now, but I still haven't changed them because they contain traces of my seventeen-year-old life and my seventeen-year-old dream.
I once dreamed of becoming a big entrepreneur and a special forces soldier, but now I have become a novel author. My plans cannot keep up with the changes. Looking back at the footprints of the past, I am already covered in scars.
My seventeen-year-old life was spent in accompanying novels, and yours is. Maybe I used coffee as an anesthetic to get through it. Time is passing by us, and this second will soon become the past.
Conception: