Under the Catastrophe

I want to write a story that is slow, slow and smooth. In this world full of aura and hustle and bustle, there is no magical path that can be achieved overnight, but there are earth-shattering killings. Hidden in the clouds and mist on the top of the mountain is a spiritual body that has been waiting for hundreds of years of suffering; on the bluestone of the stream, there are wild fruit stones that have been stolen by little foxes; the obsessed young man is holding a half-volume of fragments of music under the eaves of the ancient temple, waiting for a rain that has not yet arrived. Some people are guarding a ruined temple, watching the changes of generations and the passing of stars, just waiting for an old friend to return; some people are carrying an old sword and have traveled thousands of miles of rivers and mountains, and the fireworks of the city, but they don't know where to return. The road to immortality is long and the Taoist heart is clear. There is no violent ups and downs that can change your life, only the gentleness accumulated over the years. Listen to the wind singing, watch the clouds sway, and follow this story, slowly walking into the intersection between the human world and the fairyland, every inch of fireworks, every inch of happiness.