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I and his story.
The green leaves that wash in the rain, and the sound of sand.
The wind was blown up by the hair, sending out a blurred fragrance.
He walked past me, and I went through the crowd to chase his shadow.
He rode his bike in a hurry, so I looked at the traffic light and the uncrossable car.
The four seasons have become faster and faster, and the past dusk has become a thread.
I and he walked more and more slowly beside wutong street, as if holding each other and passing by.
His eyes seemed to glow, and he never seemed to be truly lighted.
In the distance, his voice came through the dust,
So my world was lit up
So the wait becomes worth it
As if knocking on the door between us, everything from grey to color
I stood and watched my city running ahead, but he seemed to live in the distance as a lonely memory
At the end of the street we looked as if we had buried the late confession.
This is 2017.9.16 Shanghai, autumn, I am still here.
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