In the warm sunshine of early winter, I want to write an article, maybe because the desolate season brings about the flickering melancholy, maybe because the occasional loss of concentration and loneliness are silently causing trouble. The bells in the morning and the drums in the evening, spring passes and autumn comes, I close my eyes and listen to the roar of winter, and reach out to caress the summer wind. Twenty-four stories, twenty-four bright moonlit nights, walking through the forest and picking leaves, whistling and whistling.