I often feel that November belongs to a boy with his trouser pockets filled with roasted chestnut, wearing a thin shirt in the chilly wind, and walking aggressively and bravely.

A long time ago, before Starbucks, McDonald's and Dolby-surrounding cinemas. Thus, on numerous sunny November days, the idle boys had to wander in groups across the streets, fiercely and energetically. And seemingly, our Shanghai grows in their wandering and repeated stare. The dark-green scaffolds are removed and mounted; the cement columns of the viaducts silently form the shade over our heads; large landscape across the old houses that have witnessed our birth; during typhoon season, the ferry dock trembles in the Huangpu River; at midnight, earthwork trucks run across the void roads. Tank cars. Roses. Ruins. Fountains. Fireworks. It takes too long and the night is near. They almost cross the entire Shanghai, when the columns of the viaducts are occupied by green Boston ivy.

Our hearts are filled with a huge amount of love and sadness.

Afterward, there are metro and light rail, crossing through Shanghai under the ground or in the sky. Time passes too quickly for us to make a revolutionary posture. No time for questions and hesitation. There's a voice pushing us, following the boy with chestnuts, wandering aggressively and aimlessly, to witness what shadow our Shanghai will create and when the Ivy will cover all the roads.