What I want to write is just a story about loneliness. Looking at the official and unofficial histories of the ancients, there is only one word - loneliness. History is a conquest by men, but they have conquered for a lifetime, but they have not yet conquered their own hearts. Behind the man, there are women's shadows, but these shadows disperse one by one like smoke. Even if you are rich in the world, you are destined to be unable to trade a piece of grass or a tree for a rhododendron on your eyebrows; even if you spend all your money on debts, you are destined to bear the price of heartache; singing and dancing, virtuous words and work, but you can never win that pipa that can no longer be stringed. Wrong love is a thrilling burning, leaving behind barren white sand. With half a face of makeup, a thin waist in the Chu Palace, a heaven-given singing voice, and an empty gate in the imperial city, tears fell like rain. It turned out that everything was just a mirror.