Last night, I occasionally turned over the yellowed diary, only to remember the dusty past and my lost childhood, only to realize how time flies. Unconsciously, many years have passed. I am still used to sitting by the lake in the park in autumn, but I don't know when the apple has become a vague memory. I prefer to sit quietly in the afterglow of the sunset and watch the fallen leaves and leaves in the wind with disappointment. Maybe it's because of my autistic mentality that I feel very kind to this sad beauty. Perhaps it is because I can find the shadow of my platform in this decadent beauty. I don't want to change myself like a lost bird. I just live every day naturally, without happiness or sadness, happiness or pain. Life is like a glass of water, insipid and tasteless.
Time goes by little by little, and the days pass by day; I seem to forget how many autumns I have spent, perhaps because for many years, every autumn seems to be yesterday and nothing has changed. Until this autumn, I will leave this city and start a new life in another place. Only when I left did I know that I was so strange to the city where I had lived for many years, and I didn't have a trace of attachment in my heart. Just before I left,