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When the footsteps of Dawn in Winter woke me up from my dream, the village was still in a deep sleep. I packed up and set off again. The smile in my dream was as bright as flowers, and I couldn’t bear to leave, but I stepped forward step by step. Countless times of wandering, but the harbor of desire is the myth of dream. All right, the near distance makes us know the taste of missing and cherish this hard-won reunion. When the light smoke rose in the village, The Sun also showed a smiling face over the orchard. I sat in the speeding car, chasing the sun and time, those nights where I had countless dreams, there was also the childhood filled with dreams. The fragments of memories became glittering. When time made me a woman, I still had nostalgia. Maybe, if there was a dream, there would be wisdom, and the dream was not far away. I always couldn’t catch up with the hurried pace of time. When I knew it, the Chinese year was no longer there. Then, in my middle age, when I was 35 years old, I was a little woman. I felt that I was 53 years old and I had become a gray-haired old woman. They said, “you are still young. I looked in the mirror, my hair was still black and bright, and at the corner of my eyes, years had left wrinkles. But my dream is still in the same place. Only experience makes my mind mature. Perhaps, this is also a fortune. But can you keep the traces of these years flowing silently with a pen? How can I keep these or those, sad, beautiful, sad, or lamenting? However, how can I get up with my friends and folks who have dreams, love, live and die? Let me take care of the messy thoughts. How can I write them?

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