Someone said: "Man is a standing reed thinking."
It turns out that people are actually the reeds in the pond, facing the refreshing evening breeze, facing the sparkling waves, watching the seabirds chasing and flying, while the reeds are swaying the reed flowers alone. Perhaps that is her white thoughts.
And I only want to be a small shell, a shell that cannot think, a shell that has been sleeping for thousands of years, to see all the vicissitudes of the world, to see through the prosperity of the floating world, and to see the rolling world of mortals.