It's true that friends talk about the world, but they meet at the wrong time.

You don't know where I am, far or near, lonely or gregarious; You don't know what I am expecting, fast or slow, poetic or sure enough; I don't know if there is another me in the world, Yang or you, to look for and meet. It was not until we met in spring and swallowed the grass green on the eaves that I realized that the sky was still blue and quiet, and I was still born and germinated in the soil until I was flourishing and old in autumn.

The world is real, and everyone is right. It's just that we met at the wrong time, creating Class 369, with powerful people and poor ants staggering. The vicissitudes and helplessness of the world have carved people without edges and corners, and the torn wounds have become one cold scab after another. They are indifferent to people and feelings, to the wind and scenery, as if everything has nothing to do with themselves.

In fact, everyone's life is not smooth sailing, and they will encounter more or less disappointments. As long as we are optimistic and open-minded, the clouds will eventually disperse. Even if you can't see the clouds or the moon, you won't waste your time and live up to that wonderful time.

The circle of friends said that walking in the world of mortals is not for grandeur, but for peace of mind, not for life to give me enthusiasm, but for a long time in the cold, which is also the most true.

Time flies, you can't stop the pace of time, and days can't pass like running water, but you can use lingering pen and ink to moisten a feeling, overflow a love, bring a touch of poetry, remember your heart, freeze your heart and engrave your love.