It's like a memory movie or an autobiographical diary. I wrote Su Wei's story and recalled my own mood. Those familiar fragments finally became the stars in the night sky that I looked at every day, and they were also the misty dust in your non-stop memory.
Those superficial tastes about love are still clamoring in my world, going back and forth recklessly. But I think, in the end, there is no escape from the right and wrong of fingertip fireworks.
How good and lucky. I loved you deeply. That was the right time to be young and wild, and the years are long.
The so-called love is just a ridiculous game where you come and go. I am just on a whim, so why should you calculate every step of the way.
Behind the long time, who is pretending to write a self-righteous and complicated fairy tale lightly?
I haven't lost you.
Without a beginning, there is no end.
Your long back has become my national border, sewn and cut with time as the thread, embarrassingly, folding time in half.