The Necessity of Old-Fashioned Dating (Second Edition)

Take me out. Ask me out the old-fashioned way. After I refuse you twice, I’ll say yes the third time.
Don’t MSN me, don’t leave Facebook messages, and don’t randomly ask me on WhatsApp if I’m free later.
We’re going to stroll, and walk a very, very long way. Only when we’re strolling do we truly talk, talk the old-fashioned way.
Tonight, because we are in love, we understand cunning, the old-fashioned way.

Bitter hesitation, sweet vexation. "I Am Hsu Liang Liang" is another realistic love letter from Li Wei-Jing that penetrates the micro-universe of a maiden's spirit.

Like a sorceress's summoning or the whispered secrets on a Scheherazade’s bed, it contains the joy of a novel's layout, the poetic essence and lingering charm of "from the heart," and the flavors of people's various situations in contemporary life—a slight dreamy reversal, a mix of joy and sorrow, and the vicissitudes of life.

Regarding partial destruction, temporary disability, selective deficits, and memory loss from random dreams... a post-youth episodic drama about an old female soul hopelessly pursuing and losing love. Precisely because she feigns strength, she must be even stronger; because she is endearingly cute, she must be even cuter; because she believes in beauty, she must be even more beautiful.

Like records of foreseen injuries (but in reality, aren't they harmless? I am so cautious and self-loving that I exercise restraint), short stories, short poems, small people, those who are already far from true physical youth, the stories of immortal love and hate, though intermittent and fleeting, flickering on and off, are always approaching: forming winding rivers of the heart, a shadowed alley beside a rich and bright main street, and even more so, a wonderful melody that breathes and rises and falls with every truly emotional moment—either light and free or paused and lingering, either like a sacrificial movement or a casual ditty, all sung and whispered intimately for the reader's heart alone, the king's nightingale, once sung, is forever lost, understood yet unwilling to understand, those boisterous yet silent ventriloquistic messages, and the beautiful salvation that makes one's heart break too easily.