Today I recalled a Ci poem by Nalan Xingde: "If only life were as beautiful as our first meeting, why would the west wind make the painted fan sorrow? The hearts of old friends change so easily, and they say that the hearts of old friends are prone to change. After talking half of the clear night on Mount Li, the sound of raindrops on the bells at night never caused any resentment. How can we compare with the fortunate ones in brocade clothes who wish to be together like birds flying side by side and branches intertwining?"
I have always liked nostalgia, which is really a bad habit. This means that it takes longer to accept something, and it may even take a lifetime to forget something.