． ． ． ． ． ． Love, hate, anger, foolishness, fame and wealth, before the worldly world, infatuated nostalgia, true or false, right or wrong, they are just a plate of yellow sand. ． ． ． ． ．
There are no heroes in the world, no matter how much fame, no matter how much sweat, how much dust, how much tears. Who can stand still in the center of the life dream of spring flowers and autumn moon, without love or pity. The dream of the world is shaken by the mist and rain. Looking back, what is left is still the heroic ambition with a silly smile. Time passes by and the traces of time pass by, and the proof of our common oath across the sun, moon and sea remains. When we are drunk in the world of mortals, when we wake up, who will share life and death with whom.