"Cut the candle in the west window" Wanderer chanted | Essay Zhou Bo

The bucket turns to the stars, and the years fly by. After a year, the contemptible people also entered the ancient rarity.

At this moment, the wanderer's thoughts are complicated, slowly diving into his heart, remembering the departure of that year.

Say goodbye to your parents, say goodbye to your hometown, and embark on a wandering journey.

The passion of youth was ignited in the barracks, and it was the wanderer's first vision.

Memory, turning a lifetime into a simple and short, a person's life, as if it were only for a few things. Memories, sifted out quantities, leaving behind the quality of life.

Some people have a flying flag all their lives; some people have quietly gone, but they have left a long shadow behind them.

The road I walked when I was young became a book in my old age. When someone reads it, they want to laugh; when someone reads it, they want to cry.

Sometimes in order to be the master of materials, the road traveled is often a slave to materials; when he becomes a slave to matter, he still thinks that he is the master of matter.

Success or failure, oneself is the helmsman of a lifetime; sadly not lost in a mirage of bizarre fantasies, but stranded on the sand of vulgar reality.

The sunset sets, looking at the galaxy, life is short. Sunrise, read you is golden; moon rises, read you are silver; in dreams, read you are tears.

Birds fly high in the sky and want to fall into their nests; frogs swim far into the water and enter the cave; people go to the end of the world and return home.

When I got home, I could hear the song of the well, raising a strip of plain silk for cooking smoke, and greeting me warmly in a hurry.