Introduction: I used to firmly believe that my destiny was determined by me, but the repeated reincarnation of fate made me wake up from the illusion mirror that I had woven. I came from the play and went to the play. I lived in the play within the play, but I wanted to escape from it all. Play is my soul and life. The wind stirs the mortal world, and in the thick fog of the light moon, what comes back slowly is a drop of cinnabar in the depths of the eyes, turning into tears and falling into your hands. The mist is vast, and I have missed this life, and I can't see clearly. A turning of Qiao chlorine curtain? Stir up the chariot? Far away? Car plot? Pull out gizzards and complain? Industry takes? Zhongfang??