In this summer night, in this evening wind, I let my memories be turbulent, but I still remain indifferent. The years have passed, and you are still well, and it is all worth it. I no longer ask for extravagant things, but I am nostalgic occasionally, and think: If the wind also knows. How can two parallel lines weave a web that is inextricably linked to each other? How can the intertwined trajectories solve the situation that is constantly being cut and turned into chaos? It is as confusing as a siege, and you are addicted to it. You don't know that a song has passed, and you let it ferment wantonly, so you can live a happy life.
Concept: The wind has its own purpose, and migratory birds have their own return dates.