I still remember the phoenix trees of that year, recalling many of the past and random thoughts. A group of flower buds on campus, riding the morning glow, welcome the rainbow in the wind and rain. In the leisure days of flowing water and white clouds, I look forward to the feeling of loss like falling flowers, friendship, hazy love, as pure as the lily on the mountainside, and as fragrant as the intoxicating wild gardenia. But now, only words understand the feelings of that year. Suddenly I wanted to write such a novel, so that the memory of that year and the notes under the sycamore trees could be unfolded forever.
Conception: