She took another sip of wine, Chuchen, the Chuchen wine she named after the mint Chuchen he planted back then: A dream came out of the dust, without thoughts or thoughts. How could she stop thinking, how could she stop thinking, she held the glass cup tightly in her left hand, a tear spilled out from her left eye, fell into the cup, and blended into the wine, making no sound.
The night wind of early spring, carrying a bit of winter chill, blew through the door behind the house. The oil lamp on the table struggled and shook a few times, and was eventually extinguished, leaving only the brightness and loneliness of the room.
Intention: The arrival of the black bird on the vernal equinox