Gathering and Separation Have Their Own Time

The long river of life flows endlessly, and many figures are like catkins in the wind, disappearing into the vastness after passing by. They may leave only vague outlines, but certain moments are like gold pebbles sinking into the river bed of time - the warmth of a look, the weight of a whisper, and even the wind marks on the corners of clothes when parting, are all tempered into immortal amber in the furnace of memory. The authenticity has long been blurred by the wash of time, but the touch of being lit still pulses like a newborn flame deep in the chest.