Yi Moyang

The years are silent, quietly urging the pace of old age. Step by step, we move from infants to old age. In this long river of time, things often change when we look back. The people who grew up with us move further and further away from us. The unforgettable experiences turn into memories in an instant. The objects that we cannot put down are never found again. These people, things, and objects meet us briefly, and then part ways forever. The building of time collapses in an instant, the fragile friendship turns into a stranger, and the scenery on the stranger's road is always blurred. Only those words exuding the fragrance of paper and ink, depicting the traces of time, settling in the shadow of time, silently following our footsteps, immortal.