The past is cool.

Early in the morning, the sound of rain, the wind, and shaking petals and fallen leaves.

At present, a case, a note, a stroke, as well as just developed ink and painting.

The quiet sun and moon, calm. In my quiet good time, I meditate quietly, read quietly, and write quietly.

I write a poem from afar, and I put my love into ink. In the world of mortals, the fate of you coming and going is suddenly far and near. Reading and appreciation of American articles

In the twinkling of an eye, at the end of July, the rain came, one after another. Wet the time outside the window, wet the fallen flowers on the windowsill. Don't miss in the skirt, catch a cold.

The past is cool, people pass with the rain. The branches were in full bloom yesterday, leaving only a shallow trace, some desolate.

Some people, finally go far away, turn around is a stranger. Some scenes are finally hazy, and after that, they become memories.

The past was cool, I folded some raving words in the wind quietly, and strung a string of purple wind chimes with scattered laughter, hanging in the silent cornice corners.

When the wind blows, the wind chimes sing shallowly, the past is cool. Silent years, who promised a lifetime of wandering, drunk whose life of charm.

I am in the past, looking for that little figure. Once upon a time, those small persistence, so small!