We are always chasing the sun and the moon in a hurry, but we forget that time is the most delicate pen and ink. You might as well take a break from running around, and take advantage of an inch of warmth in the morning light, or an inch of quiet afterglow in the dusk, to describe the delicate tenderness of ordinary days in detail.
It is the aroma of porridge steaming around the dining table in the morning, the shadows of flowers blooming quietly on the windowsill in the afternoon, the chatting side by side with old friends at dusk, and the tranquility of fingertips running across the pages of a book under the lamp late at night. This inch of time is not long, but it is enough to contain all the soft looks in the world, so that every ordinary moment, in the gentle halo, precipitates into the most touching thoughts in the years.
