I have been crazy for thousands of years, and things have changed in the world between black and white. A quiet and lonely place, knowing the wind and clouds at a glance. Two fingers once distinguished the world, the chess piece has a soul, and the sandalwood is lightly touched. The fingers are warm and moist, and in the light of thousands of candles, they are full of hatred. In the Heian era, Sanskrit a cappella singing was performed in the maple forest. As I move forward, my robe sleeves are cold and the peach blossom fan is dyed. Even if it is unparalleled in splendor, it will eventually be illusory, and people will be scattered. The bright eyes are still there, the old friends are still there, and the Milky Way is pale.
Here's my tribute to Takeru Obata. If you happen to have a friend who doesn't even know Fujihara Sawei, then I hope you like the story itself. My goal is to write Go with one hand, peach blossom with the other, and have no cavities.
Summary of content: The young monk went down the mountain to change his mind. The old monk told him: You must play chess well, and you must not make mistakes in your life.