Even if the breeze blows up your blue shirt, I can't recall your appearance; if you undress me and give me shoes, I can't recall the warmth that once existed. The cool breeze after autumn caused ripples on the lake surface. Tears penetrated the pure white mosquito net, but I didn't dare to say more. We are all waiting. ． ． ． ． ．
When the bluebird flies across the silent night sky, the response is a mournful cry. Maybe we were wrong from beginning to end.