In the afternoon of autumn,
I especially like to sit in front of the window,
Open the quaint wooden drawer,
take out the light yellow letter paper,
look at the scenery outside, thinking.
Then close the window and isolate reality from me.
Then pick up the pen and let the past connect with me.
is like this, dreams and fantasy, ancient and modern, love and hate, love and sorrow, separation and harmony, sorrow and joy, truth and false...
all turn into continuous words, vividly appearing on paper.
This is my conversation with myself,
This is my confession with this world.
When it clears up, the lines are full of brightness.
When it is rainy, the left and right sentences are full of sorrow.
I am a sensitive and emotional seed,
is completely controlled by external factors.
People like me either don’t love them or love them deeply.
People like me are either not ruthless or absolutely ruthless.
Writing a letter was once the happiest thing I felt.
Because on the other end of the letter, there is my concern and joy.
When writing a letter, it seems like talking to you from a distance.
The process of waiting for the reply makes life full of expectations.
At that time, everything was slow and everything was expensive.
It takes a long time for one heart to move towards another.
My patience was developed at that time.
My true feelings were also lost at that time.
Some habits are not easy to modify, while some
likes are not easy to replace.
In the past, writing letters was a way to express longing, and
Now writing letters is a way to miss oneself.
This habit has been with me for a long time and has been fixed.
I like to follow me for a long time and I have already fallen in love with you.
Not everyone can become anyone. The result of
is not satisfactory in the heart.
cannot be changed to discreteness, gathering again in a dream.
words that cannot be spoken in the words. There will always be various methods in
.
let us remember, let us forget,
makes us happy, and let us worry.
