Country of memory

His country, Xiao Ge of memory, people passing by.

His country, the soul of memory, quietly buried, all lost.

His country, the country of memory, one person cooking wine, one person writing poetry, one person listening to the loneliness of the wind echoing...

Every move, smile.

Every memory that falls in the time gap, every dream of wandering in a different space, or everything we have.

It is like a kite that has broken the line, getting farther and farther from the line of sight, getting closer and closer to the horizon.

I stood at the end of the moment, my eyes fell and I was sad.

We live in this country, day after day, year after year.

In this world without noisy, cold and cold looking at the world with loneliness, like the last king.

The earphones are like snow, falling on the palm of your hand, melting instantly, and everything suddenly becomes decadent.

The past that can never be remembered, from one world to another, is tenaciously alive in the heart of the heart, secretly growing, and growing a layer of icethorns in the snow-covered areas.

We squatted, and the flowers blossomed, and the stars were born, letting time flow a little, but we were at a loss.