As time changes, the flying youth slowly disappears from our memories, is hidden in the attic of memories, piles of dust until abandoned.
I planted my youthful throbbing in the midsummer of a certain year. When I look back, I still remember that the beauty of the scorching sun has been gone, and I huddled under the scorching sun, letting out sparks.
The lush metasequoias are mixed with the young sycamores. When I grew up, I still faced my youth and said frankly that I once liked a boy very seriously, and he was worthy of my love...
Purpose: Leave the memory of youth to the young