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In Beijing at the end of summer and beginning of autumn, The rain still retains the summer heat, That night, I walked through the bustling crowd into the Bird’s Nest, Just to listen to an Eason Chan concert,

When the lights dimmed, The music started, He stood in the light. Singing “Elimination”, Singing “Ten Years”, Singing “Your Backpack”. Those melodies that had played thousands of times in my headphones, Now given physical form, Glow sticks formed a sea of stars, Nearly fifty thousand people’s collective breathing and chorus, Only then did I realize those songs had been carved into many people’s youth.

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Yellowed photographs,

Time spins,

I’d forgotten I was once a backpacker,

I had imagined saving up enough private money in these years,

With packs on my back, I tread the southern skies; camera in hand, off to Antarctica,

Moved in silence before the high mountains and flowing water,

Hmm? Hmm! NICE!

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Time turns the “sorry” you owe into one you can never repay, and turns many “sorrys” into ones too late to say…

Sichuan . Chengdu . /Chengdu