January. I want us to be together. You say
February. The kite fell into the pond. What are you doing?
March. Graffiti on the cement floor. Du Nuannuan
…
One month is one century, one summer is one light-year.
It's strange that I suddenly thought of you again. Still have never forgotten.
The sad thing is that this kind of longing has lost its direction. So I wrote "Midsummer." "Light Years"
…
Shouldn't the most beautiful time stay in September in late summer and early autumn? Just...
September. Ferris wheel. Small kisses.
I raised my head to look for traces of flying birds, but I only heard the sound of wings.
... So bright and beautiful.
I am waiting for the next light year, when the flood will submerge the barren youth recorded on the mottled iron railings of the Ferris wheel.
Before civilization, angels came with happiness.
Conception: