Flying Birds Do Not Cross

Eight years ago, in 2020, I sat under the glass window, staring at the TV, watching the silent fireworks. Qian Tian had left long ago. He cheered for the coming New Year in the snowy night. Oh, maybe it should be 2019. I took out half of the rose from the mineral water bottle and shook the water. The gradually withering petals reflect the flickering screen. "3" "2" "1" The minute and hour hands on the screen coincide again. I faced the gray night sky and greeted the New Year with the flowers in my hands. I still remember that he once told me that what he liked was not the things attached to time, but the empty concept of time itself. To this moment, I never really understood. What I miss, what I am attached to, and what I try my best to regain are the things that have been carried away in the long river. ... "Until the moment the curtain falls." "The light from the edge of the cliff obscured his face." "White hollyhocks and the unsurfaced sea lay behind him." "He has a bay horse." "It has five-twelfths of the growth rings." "With dandelions and larks on the ground." "Watch him being everything he is." "And who can send him to the place he desires?" "Who can send him back to where he started?"