Ou Yizi always sits under the sweet-scented osmanthus tree in front of his door in the early morning and reads. Xue Qingsi always walks through the mass graves late at night, holding a fan in her right hand and a cup in her left hand, occasionally sighing lowly. Gong Mengsang always sits under the old willow tree and plays the piano at noon.
Intention: Wind rustling. It's raining. The mountains are rugged. Shui Miaomiao. The road is long. Tears. The bright moon peeks into my sleep, and the shadow of the osmanthus sings.