Three years of youth. A young man’s poem, written in old age. Youth is gone. This is all that remains to commemorate it. Rain darkens the moss on the steps, and slanting bamboo shadows sweep across the flagstones. A half-drawn white curtain hangs in the window. When the wind passes, the scent of jasmine drifts from a celadon vase, mingling with the faint trace of old ink on the desk. It is like an unfinished poem, softly settling in the moonlight beneath the eaves.
The orchids by the wall are dotted with dew. In the distance, a flower seller calls out, indistinct through the morning mist, like a faint wash of ink bleeding across an ancient painting. I reach out and pluck a newly sprouted bamboo shoot. As its coolness brushes my fingertips, I suddenly remember the ginkgo leaf pressed between the pages of an old book. Its yellow was just right, like a little letter cut from the colors of autumn.
Be narcissistic and have fun 🤭