The last roll of film left behind in the summer of 2019 lingers as a blurred wound, the images now scars etched in time. As for the borrowed impulses, I returned them long ago.

What withers in silence is not just those crescent-shaped eyes, but also the shadows and seawater, forever destined never to bloom. The remnants of winter and the first cigarette butt of my fourteen-year-old self carry me back to the wishes I had at eighteen. Like a fleeting dream, they dissolve in the light of day.

Humans are endless wanderers, weaving more tenderness into their journey. The spring sun climbs once more over the wooden stakes, reviving the vitality of the past, while some things, now surrounded by flies and ants, await the inevitable decay of connections. These are the relics of my forgotten past, and the quiet melody of my new beginning.

遗留在2019年夏日的最后一卷底片，始终是我失焦的伤口和影像残留下的疤面。而借来的冲动，我早已经还回去了。

自行默默凋谢的不止是那双弯弯的眼睛，且将永不开花的还有那些阴影和海水。那些残存的冬日和14岁时候的第一个烟蒂，带我回想起我十八岁的愿望。黄粱一梦，始终是白日。

人类是无法终结的流浪者，为自己着意增添了更多的情意。春日的太阳爬上木桩，焕发着往日的生机蓬勃，而一些事情则被苍蝇与蝼蚁环绕，等待面临的，始终是变了质的关系。这些，是我的旧的遗忘，也是我新的浅唱。