Lonely flowers bloom in the floating world, the crescent-white light brews in the smile, and the splendor of the sky drips from the dream.
When the years are completely weathered, when black and white subvert the dusk, when the fleeting years are engraved on the epitaph of youth——
Who will still remember the eyes of the young man under the sycamore tree? Who will remember whose smile was bright back then? Who will still remember the memories of running away in a hurry?
Who will remember when gardenias bloomed?
"Later, time died."