Yunxu's Little Stories

The girl collects the shape of a cloud in a glass bottle every day - sometimes it's a lost sheep, sometimes it's a spilled color. On the seventy-seventh day, the cloud in the bottle condensed into a feather. She stepped onto the clouds as she was told, and found that all the forgotten little things were floating there: the red balloon that was lost when she was three years old, and the apology that was left unsaid yesterday. She leaned over to pick it up, and the sky became a little lighter. Capture the stars and wind from the old alleys and cut ordinary little things into cloud-like chapters. Hidden between the words are the moon on the corner of the eaves, the tea on the desk, and the unfinished whispers in the wooden window. They do not pursue strange stories or grand chapters. They only use the soft brushstrokes of prose poetry to gently compile the small and tender feelings in the fireworks into this old record. When reading, it is like holding a silk handkerchief soaked in the fragrance of ink. You can touch the softness of time and taste the poetry in the story.