Among thousands of people, you meet those you've met. Through thousands of years, across the boundless wilderness of time, you happen to meet them, neither earlier nor a bit too late. There is nothing to be said except to ask lightly, "Oh, you're here too?"
Maybe every man has had two such women, at least two. Married to a red rose, over time, the red becomes a mosquito blood stain on the wall, while the white remains "moonlight before the bed"; married to a white rose, the white becomes a grain of sticky rice on the clothes, while the red remains a cinnabar mole on the heart.
If memories had a smell, it would be the fragrance of camphor, sweet and secure, like clearly remembered happiness, sweet and melancholy, like forgotten sorrow.
