When a man was young, he made friends and hung out at dinner all day long, and his wife and young son were completely no match for the slightest sound of his mobile phone.

Like water and time, men pay for cigarettes, alcohol, cards and bargaining. The dusky street lamps, the glittering overhead, the crescent moon looming in the dark night sky, and the images of relatives flashing in his mind when he was drunk are the remnants of men's memories before going to bed every night, but they quickly turn into wisps of smoke and disappear into distant dreams.

In middle age, men call butterflies to accompany them, travel all the time, thousands of beautiful scenery, infinite vitality. Loved ones don't linger in their minds for a moment, they seem to be the most vague and distant existence in the world.

The years cleanse every beating heart, or continue to persevere enthusiastically and harvest dreams; Or there is no light at the end of the day after endless efforts, and only despair remains.

This is true of the world, and so is love. In his old age, the man fell seriously ill, and he had to stop his hurried journey.

Packing his bags and returning to his hometown, he knocked on the familiar but unfamiliar door: I need to take care of it now, so I plan to return to my family!

The wife handed over a copy of the "Divorce Agreement" that had long been worn out: The only thing I have to do now is to ask you to sign it.

"The Lingering Stream" and "Untitled" No. 4 are being typed by hand, please wait a while,

Once the content is updated, please refresh the page again to get the latest updates!