An inkstone filled with thick ink paints a picture of the road

A pool of thick inkstone with an inkstone paints a beautiful journey

"A pool of thick inkstone with an inkstone is soaked in the color of persistent years"

The rain is falling, flowing With thousands of eaves. A curtain of hazy rain, dense and dense. The stone road was spun into a quiet green, glowing with a dark blue hidden light. The streets, ancient bridges, and the falling rain on the town have merged into strips of turbid water, forming a wide sea, mottled with the passing years.

The bitterness drifted into the wind, blowing away the corners of the two towns. The ink made from foggy inkstone splashes out into the streets and alleys of flowers, willows, wind and moon.

The mist of rain is drifting, and the lights in the house are yellow. The low silk sound rang from the head of the alley to the end of the alley, still falling in the lingering night, with the crescent moon hanging sideways. A blue lamp illuminates the beautiful shadows on the window lattice, smearing a touch of graceful heart poetry, quietly reminiscing and writing the past between the lines.

A pool of old ink from yesterday, with half a volume of broken notes in regular script written horizontally and vertically, like a tidal wave, and the vast prosperity becomes a dream. The misty rain went away, the sparse moon was hazy, and warmth fell to the ground. Indifference blocks the tenderness of the heart, and condensation withers away the charm. The little strokes were crushed to pieces, drifting away with the wind and flowing with the water.

The flowers have fallen, the people have dispersed, and the pale stories have drifted away. There is still a faint trace of blurred ink marks, and the edges are broken into dots. There are spots and dots of residual images in the water stains. The fragrance of time fades away, and I am nostalgic for the past. Time flies by in the indifferent stars and moon, and in the thin clouds, yesterday's yellow flowers have fallen, and the broken branches and dead leaves are floating.

The inkstone fills the night, and the fragrance overflows the pond and lake. The upright pink lotus and the moonlight whisper, telling the charm of the purple fly and the moon. The quietness outside the window, the harmonious clear light, playing with the hanging vines.

The gentle breeze blows through the dream, spreading the fragrance of the flowers in the past, and fluttering the petals of the season on the distant shoulders, bringing with it a touch of fragrance and a few smiles.

White walls and black tiles, trickling into sorrow. The lingering landscape is swept from the valley by the cold wind. The fallen leaves and dead trees, light clouds and broken rain are just a passing moment. The looming yesterday leaves no trace of ink, just a bunch of empty vines. On the dock that remains unchanged through the ages, it adds another layer of color to the oath to the flowing water.

Oaths are sometimes gibberish, deceiving others and yourself, and then continue to edit the next lie. Cai Luosu is forced to weave many helpless, lamentable blanks, and even absurd falsehoods. Blowing leaves in the autumn wind does not necessarily mean that winter is coming, black tiles on the wall do not necessarily mean that heavy rain will come, wind and rain do not necessarily mean that there will be no sunny days, and a mist of mist and rain does not necessarily mean that the clouds will be light and the breeze will be far away.

An inkstone is filled with the thick ink of spring, soaked in the color of persistent years. Possessing the weight of life, it re-traces the vicissitudes of life in the world of mortals. Maybe it's the wind, flowers, snow and moonlight, maybe it's the moonlight when the clouds and sails pass by. There will always be people reading love with tears and looking forward to peace. There will always be pursuit and obsession, and a calm smile.

Bitterness for a while, misty rain south of the Yangtze River. At the ferry of life, pick up time, fill up the bitter wine, and enjoy it yourself. Whether it's good or bad, it all settles under the dim lights and soft moonlight?