The summer is noisy with cicadas, and green lemons are first seen.
In a small southern town filled with gardenias, where the old city wall is mottled, fate quietly branches out.
She grabbed the inch of fabric at the corner of his clothes, like grabbing a kite string in the wind. At the end of the string was not a bicycle, but a throbbing that she dared not name, floating in the waves of cicadas.
May their stories be like the aerial roots of a banyan tree, growing deep into the earth's core for hundreds of years.
Intention: Listen to the heart and embrace growth in summer: the unspoken chirping of cicadas eventually becomes the echo in the heart
