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Li Xiao could not forget the stubborn young man who bullfighted with him in the sunset, the last three-pointer in that focal point battle, the starry summer night, Bai Lu's graceful dancing, nor the same summer night, Zhao Feiyan's loving eyes. Youth is fleeting and passion is gone. The tenderness that was once within reach has now turned into white butterflies in dreams and distant stars in the sky. Youth is like a beautiful but fragile dream, which wakes up when caught off guard; ideals are like carefully woven fairy tales, which are beautiful if they are not broken; reality is like a giant hammer in the hands of barbarians, wielded unreasonably and wantonly. Li Xiao struggled in the intertwined whirlpool of the three, like you, like me, like him, and like the weeds and wildflowers.