Epigraph: Alone I sit at cold night, joys and sorrows neither be felt.

Mournful are falling leaves this autumn, breaking through haze layer; as shrouded in cold wave, river covered in fog and will thaw one day. Ancient poem says: to have a plum, Moonlight can be very sweet; If there is snow, and she will dance and play a cucurbit flute.

Among small beginnings, I no longer think about time inner and outer. Someday, you may also be quiet and sit by the window, ponder your own story like a foreigner, smiling and shaking your head. So deserted the winter is , the heart and mind just tending away.

I back Chengdu from Los Angeles this day 21 years later. I watched the morning rain, pattering and non-stop; orchid also alias elf, sigh from dark spring nights, much different the text from voices on Wechat and phone.

If season's poetry real, then where I going, where you be with me. La vie est-elle absurde. The orchid in the basin full of melancholy. In the Shang era,  we can't find expression to summer. I observe you from other shore on photo, it's a damn decision.