When I lean on the edge of the desert and count the dust on the flowers, more than half of my life has passed.
The sound of the wind chimes was still distant, but in the dim light before my eyes, it was sometimes clear.
Memories are like an overturned boat, silent in the palm of your hand. When you open it, it becomes the past years. If you are not careful, you will fall into scattered and mottled memories, dancing wildly in the sky.
Is life short or long?