I have read too many articles in the past three years. I vaguely remember that from the time I first listened to friends' introductions, to breaking through the top 50 in Jinjiang, to Baidu and various forums to ask for articles, the book shortage was really uncomfortable. I kept sucking milk like a hungry baby, and refused to let go even if it was full. One journey after another, life seems to be more exciting than ever; most forums have registration numbers, and most of them in bookstores have been read. I proudly look at the envious eyes of my friends while introducing good and new articles with relish.
It took me three years to never know what "How Many Flowers Fall in Dreams" was, but now I have read hundreds of novels, and suddenly I feel a lot richer in my heart. Everything is like a passing cloud, but it is not. There is always something left behind. I can't explain it, but it is probably left in the subconscious.