Time slips away from us quietly. Once upon a time, we also tried to keep it, but it still passed through the gaps between our fingers and left unhurriedly. It took away our green years, the people who had been with us, and the laughter and laughter of those years. Only a carving knife was left to carve our faces wantonly, proving that it had indeed come.
Those stories called youth, the group of young people in the stories are now scattered all over the country, leaving their hometowns in order to survive, suffering all the waste of fate, and are ruthlessly marked by the vicissitudes of life. But whenever I lie on the cold bed in the dark basement, I still think of that beautiful time, sobbing with tears in my eyes. The memories slowly flow with the tears in the corners of my eyes, fall on the damp mattress, bloom into a flower, and spread into the depths of my memory. Those stories called youth, the group of young people in the stories...