Pressed the Shutter Fifty Years After Amnesia

He starts from a piece of black paper. There is no past, no emotions, no concept of "I". When he woke up, someone told him that you had lost your memory, your name was Chen Xunchuan, you had a camera, you could go out for a walk, maybe you could remember it. And he left. We have gone through spring, summer, autumn and winter, through war, through hibernation, and through a hundred years. Looking for his own memories, but do he really have these memories? And those faces that only appeared once but left a little mark on his chest. Everyone is a shard of glass. He had no idea what he was collecting. Just walking, shooting, and living. Those fragments have been accumulated for a hundred years and scattered in time. Like a singularity. No one, nothing. Then it exploded. Light rushed out from within and turned into stars, turned into stone, and turned into everything that followed. So does he. The fragments fell on him one by one, dyeing them with color, writing their names, making him him. Until I met her. She put the pieces together and made a mirror. He stood in front of the mirror and saw a person. That's him. He started from a piece of black paper and spent countless years dyeing himself into the universe. The last line of his diary was written "I", but it is unknown whether he became the god who wrote about me, or the person who wrote about me.