{starting point} Sometimes it feels that the floating posture of a fluff is more like flight than a bird. {Some} Among the many questions that I can't explain, why do I write, why do I have the urge to record, and what is their significance.In many cases, writing is equivalent to selling one's own stories, past, feelings and thoughts, including privacy.Together with some of the old people in the memory, they are packaged and sold together by themselves. There's this thing about writing. Described in this way, it will appear a little, a little shameless. Like some dawn trying to sell your own sorrows, joys, confusions, splitting headaches.Desire for them to become of some value to others as well.

When I wrote a diary when I was a child, if my parents peeked at it, I almost wanted to die.Why is it that when I grow up, I am willing to write all kinds of secrets deep in my heart and show them to many strangers. What do I want to share. {elevator} A year passed quickly. The elevator in the corridor needs to be overhauled.I discovered this by noticing that there was a sign on the top of the car.The nameplate reads "Inspection unit, where is that place", "Inspection personnel, who is so and so", and then "Date of next overhaul" and "Year, Month, and Day".Nearly half a year into the future, beyond the distance of three seasons.

However, completely, just looking up again one day, I found that the nameplate had been updated.The previous date of the "next inspection date" has become another hundreds of days later.And a day that was once thought to be far away has already appeared. {twenty five} Twenty five years.It will be twenty-six years. It's just the meager accumulation of twenty-five "it's a long time" and "soon to pass" that erode each other and cancel each other out. Fortunately, a measurable thickness was finally superimposed.Less than two centimeters. Named into a book called.

"Soon, soon it will be over." {Snow} It snowed unexpectedly last winter. The TV was turned on from evening to early morning, and the 24-hour news was full of information about Snow.Gradually, the saying about it was formed into another word "snow disaster", and the pictures covered in silver makeup on TV had nothing to do with beauty.Looking out of the window, the cities in the south show completely unfamiliar faces. Time and space are reversed. One morning, I moved a few hundred meters in the community by gliding.Later, together with the security guards and other residents, we took a big broom to remove as much snow as possible from the main road, and the lawn was already thick enough to leave footprints several centimeters deep.

The edge of the shoe squeaked in the friction, wet, but like a dry touch. The sky was silver-gray, and snow fell from places that could not be detected ten meters, one hundred meters, one thousand meters away. Follow the theorem of conservation of matter.This heavy snow may have met us many times during the countless times of condensation, melting, evaporation and liquefaction in the past. Torrential rains and floods at five. A pool that holds grasshoppers and leaves at ten. When I was nineteen years old, the winter rain mixed with fine ice beads, and a weak snowman was piled on the windowsill, and the head melted into a bowl in less than two days.

Then for the past six years, it gathered in the air again, striking with terrifying momentum. Cycle, reciprocate. Cycle, reciprocate.