Library

I met you in autumn. Summer is coming to an end, so you should wait for me at this place ten years ago. You are the moonlight brought by the ebbing tide, you are the bookmark swept away by time, and you are the brightness of every page held up by the stream. I hope the tracks are covered in autumn and all the station signs say August is not finished yet. On the seasonal train, if you want to get off early, please don't push me to wake up, so that I can sleep until the end, pretending not to know that you have left.

In this short life, we will all lose it eventually, so you might as well be bolder.