The sun is a bit harsh, and the cicadas in June always make a hoarse but high pitched sound.
The trivial light is squeezed out from the leaves desperately, and when it falls on people, it is mottled light and shadow.
The distant wind blows with a ray of summer heat, but more of it is a kind of unspeakable softness. The voice in my ear, the scene in front of me, everything, all of them make the five from the future, a little confused.
Summer is different from spring.
Spring is green, stingy and mean.
Summer is magnificent, abundant and rich.
All things, to the full