Blue vase fragments.
Ugly brown-red thorns.
The crystallization of time folded into a frail airplane on the white paper that was scratched that year, staying in the foggy harbor of memory, holding up the unfinished dreams of youth, waiting to set sail, waiting for the girl waiting behind the road, waiting for the sentence: Wang Xiaoyi, come on! Come on!
It turned out that Wang Xiaoyi was all his dream that year.
——Love Letter: Red Thorns, Blue Vase