Life is short, even if you have the same face, it will not be the same fleeting time. The ink on the pen tip is new, but the spiders under the eaves are old. The boudoir is in vain to embroider pairs of flowers and birds, and the courtyard is empty to sew the clothes of a prodigal son. A stroke of lovesickness becomes the meaning of a painting, and a thousand faces can be painted but not the beauty. What is right and wrong, listen to me...
Intention: