Sick·eighteen·us (Part 1)

In the afternoon of early summer, my room was still hidden in the desolation as usual. There was a deep sadness in the lingering tune of "Arangus Concerto". Light the sky-high price of incense, watch the fire dance with the music, and then blow it out with some reluctance, watching the transparent liquid turn into white smoke that rises and dissipates in the air. The light in the room was a little dim. I opened the book that had been lying at the bottom of the box not long ago, and my fingers found the dog-eared corner faster than my eyes. It was there that Christophe met Olivier. "... At the other end of the living room, he met a pair of eyes that looked at him and immediately moved away. Compared with the dull eyes in the audience, these eyes had an indescribable and innocent atmosphere that surprised him. They were timid, but clear, clear, French-style eyes, looking at people so straightforward: they have nothing to hide themselves, and nothing about you can be hidden..." Intention: