I have always felt that I must write something to commemorate my lost student days. This idea is firmly entrenched in my head, lingering in these vain times that are about to be corroded by matter.
Recently, I occasionally think of the past, like the murmurings of a twilight old man, nostalgic for those long-blurred youth days, picking up the scattered fragments in the desert of barren memories, how precious and unwilling to do so.
When I was young, I often recalled things that happened when I was even younger. At that time, I was obsessed with pictures and words, and I was very ambitious and lingered in my fantasy country. The memory is of the dark green moss growing on the corners of the cement walls in the hot and humid summer in my hometown, exuding the musty smell of time, which is unforgettable.