I always hide in the depths of dreams and seasons, listening to flowers and nights, singing all my dreams, singing all my prosperity and singing all my memories.

I wonder whose thoughts those birds took away.

I forgot the year, month and day when I carved a face on the wall-Zhang Wei smiled and stared at my face sadly.

Will the love carved on the back of the chair bloom like a flower on the cement in a windless forest?

I just want to read that the dream of consciously carrying contrast is shielded by the grid as the isolation of Tao.

Only you are thinking, and only you can think that the sky is topaz and the earth is black.

Time didn't wait for me. You forgot to take me.

I always chase those cliffs where the Kuroshio is raging.

But I forgot the season in the wheel of life and the sunflower that quietly opened and withered.