At that moment when hot air and cold air convection, the space in front of you is distorted into a Monet oil painting, like a jigsaw puzzle pieced in the wrong place by a naughty boy. Quicklime ground pigment is evenly spread on vellum.
The gray smoke after the ingot paper money and the fire's glory surged unbridled on the surface of the air. The young man stood in front of the haystack against the wind. The burnt white paper merged into the wind and flowed endlessly. The gray-black waves hit him head-on, and the smell of saltpeter poured into his nose to avoid it. The noisy smoke overflowed with starlight in his eyes, and he hurriedly turned away. Perhaps the ancestors under the tomb did not want to let go of the descendants on the ground so easily, and commanded the liquid of smoke to wrap around the boy with a superior attitude.
He felt uncomfortable and did not believe in these heresies in his mind. He felt that these so-called heavens and hells were all tricks to fool fools. He dismissed them and sneered, secretly thinking about how to simplify these weird rituals into check-in tasks that could be completed by moving his fingers on the screen in the unknown future. Perhaps the formalism criticized by □ has been sublimated together with electronic paper money at this moment, becoming a piece of smoke from the past and the future.
Purpose: Cherish what can be cherished and remember what has been lost