When memories pass by the desolate youth, the yellowed and green words in my mind become vivid. Waves of thoughts swirled in my mind, vague and familiar at the same time.
"Don't leave me."
The afternoon sun was as dazzling as quicksand, flowing into the room and filling every corner of the room.
"Please cherish it."
When the wind blows the pages of the book, the pages flip in response to the breeze; when the symbols on the manuscript paper pass by your eyes, it is like entering a confused dream.
"Memories are like fragile fireflies."