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describe a paragraph of heart language, silent cone heart, closed attachment, let the past flow, let the exclamation blowing chaotic words, covered in the pillow of the far wind, all the way along, twisting all the way. Pick up the words, the heart of the flute, in the lotus across the palm of the wandering, you foam with camphor warm gesture away from me. Have you ever looked back? The swaying rain and smoke in the ink were blurred. Some thoughts, some books, in the painful format of the years, may not be really air-dried, deleted. Perhaps, in an old familiar corner, it will still cross the dust of the heart, walk back, stand in front of the heart, and silently look at the soul.
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