Library

On the day of the Flower Festival, Yu Qiaoer fell down. The veil flew out, and before she could pick it up, her life was derailed. Some people said her embroidery work was rough, while others pointed at Cangwu and said it was a broken tree. Someone else said she was interesting, so they bought her seventeen years of life for ten copper coins. The carriage is heading north, south of Cangwu. The homeland behind me is getting further and further away.

An increasingly fragmented collection of essays. Michelangelo burned the drawings, the medical soldiers were regarded as commanders, Confucius asked "do you want to eat?", Fei Xiang bumped into Fei Yuqing and made nonsense. What follows is like a box of unassembled puzzles-no diagram, but every piece is lit. The scene of a Plato car accident. Unfinished, but with the door open.