When I was seven years old, I hid under the cabinet with my brother, practicing singing the theme song of a certain TV drama. Now I only remember one line of lyrics: "Forever and ever."

When I was twenty-five years old, I read the autobiography of a certain writer. His mother passed away when he was twenty-five, and he went to the United States alone, in heavy snow, feeling the vastness of the world, and feeling that his heart had added some years.

It seems that I have never had a profound feeling about time. My past sentiments were all forced expressions of sorrow with new words. Recently, in these occasional moments, it seems that I have caught a fleeting glimpse of my own life, feeling that life has thus added years.