The dream of childhood has faded, and I no longer just want to be an elf with wings. On a moonlit night, leaning against the window, there are gradually slender hands, pressing the hot cheek against the stone railing, in the green shade of the ancient ivy, with fireflies swimming around. Instead of writing a diary like a running account, I have replaced it with dense and fuzzy handwriting, on the pages of dark blue and light. There are sentences that no one knows in the blue tears... Every love is an apple that God has taken a bite of, and some will leave sweet scars. It waxes and wanes like the moon, but whether it is a waning moon or a full moon, or a chipped apple or a full apple, it maintains a kind of completeness, or incompleteness is also a kind of completeness.
