This is a short story, without gorgeous words, just a hazy love. This is a sad story, without the vigor and vigor of other love, but only a faint fragrance. This is a short love story and a very long diary. "If there is only the first meeting in life, why is the autumn wind sad and painted on the fan? It is easy to change the old heart, but the old heart is easy to change." Time is a cold killer, it takes away everything, leaving memories, but without each other's existence, no matter how beautiful the scenery is, it is just in vain. I vaguely think of "the moon is hazy, the birds are hazy", and "the flowers are not flowers, and the mist is not mist". Love goes around and around in place, but never stays. Life is like a package, hiding happiness and sadness, success or failure, and of course a trace of loneliness. Sometimes I hope to stay drunk forever, sometimes I hope to stay awake all night. Maybe life is like this, a glass of wine, a lifetime...