十月二十七日 冷.

呼吸著熟悉的冷空氣

去年冬天至少還有你

冷風觸摸不了甜蜜的

溫暖

和

香水味



想必starbucks快要換上冬日的佈置吧

播放著令人愛恨交織的柔情之歌



香港的冷比巴黎的孤單

少了一個人閒著的浪漫

My autobiography of You.

It is so hard to write a word. Recalling everything is going to confuse myself once again. My heart is stirred. The incompleteness deep down in me is flooding. Yet, I have decided. I have decided to write about you.

The images have been fading in my head. They are not as solid as you first left me. Your smell was fading, and now nearly gone. Your face, your touch, your warmth have been slowly—the sentiment, the significance have been slowly fading away.

I attempted so hard to remember, to provoke my memories as I started writing. I am scared that I have lost the essence and I will never even notice. I will never be able to write them all down because human’s memories are partial no matter how much a person eager to keep the bits and pieces of his past. Like wine in a bottle, every time a man opens the bottle, some parts of it evaporate. Becoming thinner and thinner, memories evaporate into the air and were gone forever.