Time has stranded the memory of years, years have outlined the so-called past, and the anonymous letter of the world of mortals will never end.
Most of a person's life is based on regret, which extends in time and forms a mess. Holding a handful of Qinghe tears, I smiled and snuggled up between songs, as if I had chosen stubbornness in despair, looking for a trace of life in broken walls, so as to get to know each other, hold hands and stay together, and walk to the end of that road, waiting for light. God said: all the light is beautiful, and these expectations have been broken.
At the end of the road, deep in the light, the night stung my eyes. The wind in my ear finally drowned the passion of youth. At that time, the light went back, the moving crystal had already weathered, and the memory turned into glassy tears. Who remembers the dreams that couldn't be let go in those years?