On an impulse, I opened my QQ zone, which held about 168 albums. Over these years I’ve developed a habit: after every wander, I organize the photos. First I back them up to a portable hard drive, compress the originals, and upload them to the zone. Gradually, there are now 15,000 photos. Each one is an “once” in time turning into the start of a story. Each picture carries the bits and pieces of living—it truly feels full of sentiment. Time can’t be held still, and youth rolls and surges in the long river of memory, dragging out vivid shadows. A little sentiment, heavy enough to reach straight to the heart, yet never making people feel distant.

Picking up the lost lights and putting on the earphones, I closed my eyes. Times have been changing. A young man with the most familiar face—telling me I look scary when I’m angry while his smile grows ever more unbridled. When I turned to that photo, the pixels were nothing to praise, and I’ve forgotten which phone model I used in 2008, but the shirtless young man with his stout build truly froze time for an instant. The bond between guys is pure, as pure as instant noodles—not only convenient but goes with everything. Peeing together, window-shopping for girls, catching movies, sharing Carrefour roast chicken, one lid each when broke, and endlessly teasing each other when bored.

The day I first arrived in Beijing, looking at the northern food, the two of us stared blankly at each other, ate a few bites with great politeness, then turned and left, determined to go through every dining hall on campus to find simple, tasty meals. We often got our monthly allowance at the start of the month, feasted for a week, then stared at each other, bought a box of instant noodles at the basement supermarket, and vowed not to be so extravagant next month. Sometimes we’d wander around that basement supermarket for ages—the kid wanted a Coke, purely for the best value, and only Coca-Cola at that. At that moment I thought this kid was truly clueless. We’d huddle together around the monitor, staring at a Taiwanese rock concert we’d spent ages downloading, starting to tease and trash-talk each other. That year, when choices were being made, the kid reasoned like an adult with unique insights. The warmth of that bond has always remained, never drifting away.

That year Jimmy P. published a new book—“Peacock Forest” made the two of us stare at each other, 「 When will you finish reading it? 」 『 Just wait. 』 「 When will you finish that book? 」 『 Not yet. 』 「 When? 」 『 No. 』

A book of gentle melancholy keeps two single dogs company.

「 If you won 5 million, what’s the first thing you’d do? 」 『 To the South Pole. 』 「 And then? 」 『 We’ll talk about it when I come back alive. 』 「。。。」

From then on, my signature line was changed.

I’ve been here for over half a month. The streets of this city are quiet and desolate; gazing along the roadside, everything feels especially different. Gradually I’ve come to realize that the words I’ve written these years follow no habit or restraint—which one is the real rogue me, which is the genuine me, which is the me I like? All the ten thousand drifting smokes pass before my eyes, yet a single good day of sunlight still makes my heart flutter.

Helmet on, mask on, earphones in, riding my scooter speeding along National Highway 228. The air is full of clarity, with a touch of drizzle. Few travelers around—what a wonderful encounter. A catchy song starts playing in my earphones: “Last Dance”, a song lost on the B-side of a tape,

" So for now, close your eyes, My expectations float in the darkness, A calm face reflecting riotous colors, "

END

Fujian National Highway 228