I was born in December, yet for some reason, I always feel melancholy in July. Perhaps the heavier the burden on our shoulders, the loftier our convictions become. Perhaps when all the suffering cries out, all we can do is stay silent about our own misfortune. I once read these words in a poem by Shu Ting. Perhaps it is because there are too many familiar strangers around me that I don't want any strangers to become familiar. When everyone has left you behind, the protagonist in the story is like a child sitting beside a broken toy, while all their playmates have already gone home. Once, the fallen leaves danced in the wind...
