It feels like a distant song from a dream, accompanied by a hint of piano music, gentle and hazy, drawing one into mist-like memories.
As we age, reminiscing becomes an increasingly sorrowful affair, for every time we awaken from sleep, and see the hair fallen from our hands and the aging face in the mirror, we increasingly realize that the summer which was once sour and sweet like a lime will never appear in our lives again.
The time carelessly squandered in the past is like water splashed on the ground—no matter how hard you grasp, even if your fingers turn raw and bloody, it will never return to your hands.
Everything moves forward like a roaring train, countless images flight past swiftly, and those once-cherished, loathed, laughed-at, and wept-for things gradually become forgotten strangers.
