March day, warm wind.
A small town in the south, its name is: Mo Nan
Xia Zimu stood on the century-old bluestone bridge, looked into the distance, and murmured: "Why do I know the distance so well that I still shed tears to say goodbye to you?
Summer of 2015, writing in 2015, what are you doing in 2015?
Are you still the young and naive person you were before?
It started out quite childishly, an article I just thought about at the time, and I want to share it with everyone.
Share the Xia Zimu of that era, and the lost Wei Ziqiao of that era.
Purpose: To commemorate who we were 5 years ago