Becoming a Daoist Master After Killing the Cat-Faced Old Lady

In this purple-mist, blue-shadowed forest, I once dreamed a dream of fleeting splendor. With black hair and white strands tumbling about, I drunkenly leaned against the Penglai Tower. The Peach Mountain is no home of Sun Wukong, and pigs squeal in the Fuling Cave. Owls roost in the ginseng-fruit tree; hibiscus weeps dew as Chu performers laugh. The sun sets over the western hills, where strange creatures roam, while a young man becomes obsessed with chanting verse. He spins a rambling tale of ghosts and wonders, speaking of immortality.