It is cloudy and gloomy outside. I haven't listened to Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No.2 for quite some time, until now. When the all-too-familiar opening chords enter my ears, a mix of feelings gushes out. I still think about those days, regardless of them being happy or sad.  Images of moments and fragments of sounds, they conflate and exert their concerted effort to draw me back into the abyss of past—a past that I've kept myself from revisiting and that nevertheless has kept haunting me.

Maybe we shall relive our past in reminiscence, savoring precious moments with insatiable voracity and thirst. Maybe in reminiscence, we shall cry, with the deepest sorrow, and laugh, out of the grandest joy.