I wanted to write a letter to the past, sitting next to the computer and thinking about it. If I could choose to start again, I would rather choose a single persistence;
I wanted to turn what I experienced into a story, as an episode of life, and felt that I was not escaping from everything. I washed my previous story and didn't choose to escape. Many things are not done, and they still cannot be perfect.
Whether or not to dwell on the past is no longer so important; just look at the present bits and pieces as every beautiful landscape; the gears of time are spinning rapidly, and the years have passed; from juvenile ignorance to middle age, the past is good and bad, sad and happy in the long river of time of interpretation.