No one will not look back at themselves, even if they are bruised and bruised behind them, but in those years when we look back, ours has always been painted 4A lead paper. No matter how you paint it with colorful pens or you can't cover up the indelible graffiti, here is the sadness that you and I stand looking up at, blown by the wind in the alley, in the sky of the old city, floating across this simple lead gray full of color.
Or maybe the flowing water in this ancient city is so clear that it can reflect the paleness of our fleeting years, and it can also carry the past and reluctance that we can't go back to. I'm back here again. The steps we once stepped on here still continue to support the coming and going of people except us holding hands. They still can't leave the footprints of anyone, including you and me. The occasional bells can never break the earth forever in the alleys of this old city. They just frightened us and said... Nanghuanglai disease?
Flowers from the other side continue to fall in this alley, and the lanterns of the old days dim the alley with yellow. Flowers from the other side are in full bloom. There is a grand funeral in this alley. The funeral sways left and right as it is blown by the wind in the alley, like a period of young and frivolous youth. After all, it is like the time in the old city, red and flawless, and the flowers from the other side fall.