The Mountains Are Endless and the Clouds Are Thousands of Layers High

About This Novel

The wind still spread its hooves, rolling on the grass and wild cattails, rolling out small circular pits in the green and yellow plants. The sun hugs the low-pressed mountains with its warm chest, steaming the aroma of dry cow dung, dry straw and ripe crops into the clear air. Some big old storks flew out of the grass silently, and the wind flicked their tails and blew them away. Oh, Liu Guangzong's heart felt as tender as water. This is his Bashan, the transparent and substantial Bashan that he is familiar with, that nurtures him, and that he relies on. He was leaning on Bashan, just like he was leaning on his real yellow sand cow.

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