Memories are too heavy, words too light, pen and paper friction, rustling, but still beautiful. Write down the time, is a memory; Is the feeling, is the ideal; It was the feeling of long absence and near loss. Time flies when hate is short, and the song of smoke and rain in the dream is disconsolate. When I was young, I was frivolous and persistent, and I had my horns honed in years of erosion. Flying dreams, shuttling back and forth in some corners of the city; Do you still remember the promise you made? Perhaps you have long forgotten what you looked like at that time. Under the scouring of the current reality, some of them are totally unrecognized and some have taken on a new look, but in any case, they will leave traces of their existence, deep or shallow.. That is, almost lost feelings. How many smiles and smiles of the light ripples will lead to how many disconsolates and disappointments. How many absolute beauty’s past, how many alienation of confusion. At that time, the cost of operation was written from horizontal to vertical. From the country I love to the country I love her very much; Later, from the classroom playground to the street corner, from within five miles to the southeast and northwest; Later, from the front to the back; From here to there; The road keeps writing. From the beginning of memory to the end of time. Write down you and me reunited after a long separation, write down your and my voice, write down you and me moved by it. That long-lost feeling is between the lines.