A great many arrows flew over the head, those were the arrows of time, like crystal fragments, whistling away.
Each time of melancholy sigh and each time of witty talk, an arrow would fly away. When it left, it would not forget to sign on the face, which couldn't be erased by any good anti-wrinkle essence. People often say that time is like a river. It must have heard this sentence, so this signature winds at the eye corners and forehead, ever-lasting.