Something that remembers is called a memory.

No matter how much time has passed, it is still yellowish.

I've been in the same place, quietly thinking about those vague things, is it joy or sadness? Maybe when everything becomes clear, there is no way to cover it up? Maybe when everything is exposed, will someone understand?

Naked thoughts, some thoughts and emotions just came out of nowhere.

I'm used to it, and I'm relieved.

In an instant, everything seemed to be as calm as it had never happened. It's because I'm not brave enough, otherwise how could I miss it? But what I miss is that I was too brave to meet the memories.

Contradictory.

Silent. That's what I've always done.

I write stories, but who can read my stories? 

Life is like chess, the world is like a game, who is the game, who is the chess.? Between talking and laughing, the face is still the same, but the scenery is not the same as before? Looking back, my head is dripping, my eyes are sad, and the days of coming and going are like flying, but it's a pity to remember.

Suddenly, watching the autumn geese back and forth, I don't know how many years have passed!

Forget yourself in winter and summer, and don't say goodbye.

Silently, far from each other.

There are very few left.

I look down on the world, and I am at a loss after all.

I don't have to say anything about it. 

There was no direction at the end of the road, and in the days when the warbler flew and the grass was long, I couldn't tell whether it was lonely or sad, and I saw the moon using dark clouds as its sunglasses, crying secretly in the back.

Others see my smile in the corners of my eyes, and I see the snub behind this smile... 

It's like life, which can't withstand the baptism of time;

It's like a residual leaf, which can't withstand the blowing of the wind.

The aftertaste is melancholy, that kind of affectionate and sad artistic conception.

A lot of sadness, a lot of sorrow.

Look at the cold wind in front of you, sigh the wind blowing and drifting;

The aftertaste of a lifetime is endless, and it disappears once you touch it.

Such trembling notes, such messy thoughts, that melody that only belongs to the pitch black, embellished with the beauty of the night.

I planted my tears in the most desolate place of my heart, waiting for the flower of sorrow to bloom. The air was filled with sadness, but my mood was so beautiful.

I watered with tears, and the flowers withered and the deepest sorrow. It turned out that everything was so empty.

Who can read my story?

Who can understand my story?

The lonely sky, the rainbow that has already melted, faint as a dream, passed away quietly.

There is a flower that blooms only in my season. 

I showed my insolence in a presumptuous way, blooming brilliantly, and blooming so wildly.

How big is the world?

How many winters and summers will my heart hold?

On a moonlit night in Gangnam, cherry blossoms may fall.

A fairy tale that romance and bleakness are inextricably linked, and it was born.

In March of this year, tears were left and the beauty of love was diminished.

I'm still me, it's just, passing by sentient beings.

The lilies are crippled, and the cloves are falling.

The world ... 

The years are quiet, like flowers blooming in a dream.

The smoke and rain are drenched, and the past is difficult to keep.

Helpless, wordless is sorrowful.

I moved slowly, to listen, to see, without the slightest hope, dreamy, hurried, that piece of the sea, I don't know, I don't know the fragrance of flowers.

I am a passerby, a hurried person in my life, if I become a memory, I only want to laugh with you three thousand times, and do not complain! 

I'm always looking for someone who can understand my story.

maybe

Someone like that,

Only in my story ...