The temperature gets cold at night, and the dark green smell of the mountains is endless. When our eyes adapt to the darkness, we will look up. The sky is full of stars, and we walk slowly under the Milky Way, but we can't help but look up again and again, as if afraid that such a beautiful starry sky will suddenly disappear. My ideal is to return to the roots of fallen leaves, and my future is not to pull out sharp ears of wheat. If this is really fate, I would like to sing loudly for the wild thorn. "