Four years, five years, six years.
It's obviously been another four years, but it feels like the rest of my life has been pieced together by four years like this.
My memories are like cast iron, red-hot and stamped with molds.
After it cools down and is touched, it is all the marks of a rough and mottled mold waiting to be touched.
Or like the marks on a typewriter.
She is a color in my life.
It was also the thorn that bound me out of breath. I swallowed the scars of the skin and felt the fascination and indescribable superficial pain.
When she was 30, I was exactly 20.
Intention: Countless nights of swallowing this bitter wine with the person I miss the person I miss
