Put it in a wooden box,
When it can't stand it, lock it,
It's like folding a memory into a bookmark and putting it in a page.
The scattered petals are ground into refreshing agarwood, and the memories are longer than those. ...
Lost primary school picture books,
Grind into a shape I don't know,
Except for the vague words on the cover,
Only the dust close to the palm is left.
I looked down again,
After school, the sky on the roof,
The little dragonfly basks in the sun under the umbrella.
Even unknown little wildflowers on the roadside,
I felt mud pouring into my trouser legs and pulling my feet.
The grass spread with the wind and slowly rolled in. ...
I forgot how short my house was ten years ago.
But I always remember the one I carried with me. In the book,
Happy look.
In junior high school. The most annoying math and physics are piled together.
The dark corners of the book are folded round and round,
Once you turn it over, you will have the memory of running water.
There are three or two teenagers sitting by the drizzling pond.
A one-foot square table and a scratched square face in the classroom,
Small cards bought in a simple store,
And the steep slope after school,
That laughter, that sweat,
Nowadays, it seems that new memories can be laid out.
Keywords stroke by stroke, ups and downs, jasmine fragrance, deciduous bodhi,
We can only sigh in these flying years,
Then forget it in a little hard and troublesome life.
At this moment, I just want to believe that these things are so real.