If time is torn apart and folded back again, if memories are ignited and extinguished silently, if youth is not painted with vast colors, if the blurred light on the white paper is not cyan mist.
This may be a memory, a diary, a dream dyed ink by sadness in memory.
So this book records the cyan memories of my youth, which filled me with happiness and sadness, as well as the lonely years that bloomed in large swaths of time.
May Qingyi always be with you.