When dusk comes, the sky is blue. The mountains stood quietly in the distance, like a silent beast, looking at the setting sun.
Some details are forgotten, some details are remembered. Those trivial things are like shadows projected on the wall, they regain temperature and color.
The setting sun was sinking, and the sky was dark yellow. Outside the four wilds, the sound of chickens and dogs can be faintly heard.
The stone bridge stood upright, and the vicissitudes of back faced the high sky. Time is like water, like a book, only listening and humility can arrive smoothly.
I am in the evening in August, listening to the singing of the setting sun. The setting sun is like blood and wine.