The wind picks up. Blowing the lonely and melancholy flowing clouds, there are layers of gentle waves. The edge where the clouds meet the sky is as eye-catching and sad as if it is torn apart. They spread out little by little under the dance of the wind. The sky is blue, with the dazzling sunshine of early spring in March. I don't know how many white clouds have been buried in this seemingly vast and beautiful blue sky, and how many real dreams have been buried deep inside, never to be seen again. No more.
Conception: