The author of Doubi writes about the tragedy of troubled times, the main line of comedy, and the side line of tragedy.
The ink falls to spread the word, the pen is written to form a book, the words are full of lovesickness, and the laughter and forgetfulness become sorrow.
The writer always thought that he would just be an outsider, listening to other people's joys and sorrows, and writing about other people's life and death, but he never imagined that one day he would become the person in this book.
The book lasted three years and was destroyed in one day.
They only have three years, one year to get to know each other, one year to love each other, and this last year, I'm afraid they can only be used to owe each other
Intention: