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Now I will write something in English, anything is OK. Catch little pieces of memories sliping across my mind, record something casually.
It’s always a classic scene for me of reedy bank of rivers in hometown. I see another graceful sentence here again, “One of my fondest memories as a child is going by the river and sitting idly on the bank. There I would enjoy the peace and quiet, watch the water rush downstream and listen to the chirps of birds and the rustling of leaves in the trees.” Me too. It’s a so ideal and beautiful picture.
Everytime when I look back my past life, compound feeling pouring in my head. I will unconsciously read some lyrics voicelessly.
Now, I have already became a man living in the past memory, which I thought is the symptom of prematurely senile. I sometimes can’t help to indulge myself in some sorts of fantasy. Falling leaves in the setting sun, wild goose keeping in a line, a younger stumbling along the roads, which maybe the idol skimed fast through my eye in a certain moment. Of course, I also might be the last goose passing by the sky, suspending in the atmosphere, looking silently out upon the hundreds miles of autumn, rustling, or golden yellow. If lot still exist, the passenger and the goose should smiled to look at each other one moment, but their eyes expression merely so far away and unpredictable. I think it just some kinds of infatuation, such as an old man gazing or smiling toward the empty space no reason, you say, what he saw then?