Autumn passes and spring comes, and the world is noisy.
In the pictures of history books, they are always passed by in a few hasty strokes. The ups and downs, joys and sorrows hidden in those few words are no longer pursued by anyone.
There was a storyteller who had no name, no surname, no home and no hometown.
After hundreds of years, she has seen all the gatherings and separations in the world.
She talks about the parting of lovers, about the coldness of fireworks and the fact that the bones are buried in the battlefield, and that women do not give way to men. I always lament that things in the world are impermanent, and a life is wasted due to a combination of circumstances.
The world has gone through thousands of times, and when the story comes to the end, is it complete or regretful?
There is no protagonist in the book, all living beings are protagonists.
After a moment of floating life, the world is ordinary again.
Concept: Time is silent, all life is a play