On an unknown hot afternoon in summer vacation, I was in a small room full of books, which was not spacious. In front of me is a desk with summer heat. I hold a pen wandering in time in my hand, and build my own life state on a thick book.
It is easy to add a complex and pale color to people's mood in the afternoon in summer, and there is a worry that they will continue to be chaotic. So I am eager to face the stars all over the sky alone in a quiet attic, or to turn Meng Tong-like colors into a pen and a piece of paper to create words together, without waves, twists and turns and sticky thoughts.
This is the purest word in the moonlight. I saw them lying quietly and neatly on that piece of white paper with ink fragrance, waiting for my original intention for them, or living in an unknown corner of a small attic where the sun couldn't climb, so a kind of pallor and confusion suddenly sprouted. I vaguely heard their whispers, admitting that the world lacks a warmth, but stayed in my long thoughts. But my eyes tell them that this will never happen.