Who quietly opened this page of the diary? This dusty past.
It's as if a spring rain soaked you when you were young, and it lingered on and you still wanted to go. Suddenly, the rain passed and left no trace.
…
What young man is not good at love? What girl is not good at conceiving spring?
…
Everything is temporary and fleeting, and what passes away will become beautiful.
Who quietly closed the diary again? It's not me, it's the wind.
Conception: