When I first woke up from a dream, in the Yuechuan River in southern Xinjiang, the gods were offering sacrifices to poisonous fans.
The incense curls up, and the ink is faintly traced. North of the Gobi, the Central Plains is vast.
Dream butterflies flutter, walking towards the holy fire, slightly drunk from the sorrow.
The face in the morning is blurred, and the moon is chasing the moon in the evening. Where can I go home?
The past is mottled, fragmented and sedimentary, and the memories are foggy and gray.
——I have lost my memory?