Doesn't everyone have that memory, like a dream they had one afternoon, which is hard to forget but doesn't seem to be real? They miss those heart-pounding plots over and over again late at night, and then find that those memories are like colorful bubbles in cartoons, gradually drifting away from our current time and space and becoming a past that others are not interested in.
Is there a dividing line between time and space? Where is the present and where is the past? Is there anyone recalling stories from the past at this very moment?
An ordinary memoir to commemorate that autumn with nice weather...
Intention: A beautiful and sour memory, I hope it can remind you of that person in your youth~