When the crisp and exciting bell flashed the law of its hard work and continuous progress, the clock at the last second disappeared without a trace. The confluence of minute hand, hour hand and second hand, the torrent of time, is full of the concerto of our life pace.

The fish jumped out of the pure white cylinder covered with lenses, and the calm and gentle water surface rhythmically made circles of horizontal marks. The breeze caresses the gentle leaves, and a few autumn leaves fall to the ground, slowly strolling over the treetops in the arms of where you are going. Zi said in Sichuan, "The deceased is like a husband, not giving up day and night." Is it a blink of an eye, or is it a hot pursuit?

The source of life is my mother's accidental meeting in October, which has quietly entered the countdown. God is fair. He gives us the same time and fair treatment. From ignorance of youth to sadness of lost youth, we care about what promises and meanings time has given us, rather than how to encourage, despise and stifle "memories". It is true that only youth and youth can withstand profligacy.

Miss the lush years of childhood, he slipped away without saying hello, leaving only a fascinating picture and its unknown theme color.

I remember how beautiful the weather was that hot summer. I still remember the aunt who sang "Oh, yo-ho" and sold "maltose" in the street. She rolled up her throat with a clear rhythm, and the timbre filled the air, turning three or two times, which was very nice. Holding the pen tightly, she came up with "oil". Sweat dripped down her face like half a month, and her mouth couldn't help being sweet. Sticking to that "tranquility" is probably a long time ago, but I don't know that when the aunt selling sugar left, a person rushed out of the window, trying to find the sound of selling, trying to get the touch of eating sugar from afar.

Now, sit at your desk again, let the traffic and noise disturb you and make it move. Unfortunately, you may never hear the voice of selling your voice again. You can only stare at that one and cut the tail, which brings us meditation and memories.

Those sweet and warm memories may just be daydreams parked outside the window and memories in the window. Now my hands are waving in the air, and I can't catch anything I want to keep in a short time. Suddenly, when you hold up the clock in your left hand, what you see is not the flow of time, but the blurred eyes fall into the back of your right hand.