A long time ago, there was a man in white clothes who used to sit on the roof and drink wine. When he was slightly drunk, he sang sour songs in a low voice, saying, "Who in those days had his hair tied up and his temples tied up, and the day and night were over."
And I often stand under the pear tree not far away, listening silently, thinking about the other person who likes to wear white clothes, and always strokes my messy hair and raises an uninhibited smile. It's just that he left too cleanly.
I showed a trace of bitterness and listened quietly. I don't know when the groaning stopped. I looked up and the man looked back at me. I'm drunk for some reason. Drunk in this slightly cool breeze. …