When I was a child, I thought a year was so long. From the Spring Festival, I’d eagerly wait for the next one, as if I’d been waiting my whole life.



Now I feel like a year is so short. Before I’ve even finished digesting the Spring Festival dumplings, the dumplings for the next Spring Festival are brought out again.

I worked it out: in my childhood, with those 365 days, each day was a different kind of feeling. After I grew up, those 365 days were like this—Monday was the weariness of Monday, Tuesday was Monday’s extended version, Friday was the prelude to Monday, and the weekend was Monday you just lie through.
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