I hope that when the wind stops, the past of youth can fall to the ground silently and gently like a light snow. Each snowflake brings a star of patient kindness to itself and others, burying the bad brokenness and pain and despair layer by layer. Next year, the warm breeze will pass by in small pieces, and it will be another season when the lake is about to dissolve, completely turning into a painting. Hanging in time, facing each other, the sun does not come, obliquely wiping a line of silence, quiet, those loves, those friendships.