For the dead

Memory is a wound on the back of the hand. It can’t be touched when it just stops bleeding and scabs. Any careful tearing will cause heartrending pain. When it becomes a scar, after a few years, it will sometimes itch. You can’t help but scratch it. What is love? What is the definition of desire? Can they live alone without each other? Which is more important? Is there any such thing as love in this world? Of course, what I’m going to tell you is not 10000 whys, but a memory in my life, a small, slightly sad memory.