There are drifting clouds in the high sky

Clouds should be white, but at different times there will be different scenes: the clouds of the morning are dyed pink, as soft as the blood of a baby's cheeks; the clouds of the evening are gilded with a golden red, as splendid as a majestic palace. White clouds, always related to sunlight, are always dyed with red.

Yun Er had a lot of clothes, pink, golden, lead gray, dark black, but I liked the milky white one the most. How good the milky white is, light, clean, and as translucent as gelatinous. The white clouds accumulate and separate in the high and low cruising, hanging on the top of the mountain, hanging on the surface of the water, sometimes being picked up by falling flowers, and sometimes being carried by birds. Yun Er has been accompanied by the poet's contemplation, and continues to walk with half a bowl of moonlight.

Clouds, erratic, rootless, twilight, unpredictable. Sometimes as gorgeous as a rainbow, sometimes as white as snow; sometimes as thick as fog, sometimes as faint as smoke. Clouds, a thousand postures, thousands of styles, gathered by causes, scattered with fate, empty and empty, one lifetime, no trace. The beauty of the clouds, the beauty is in the illusion; the beauty of the clouds, the beauty is in the confusion.

A nice name, a good look. Or into flocculents, or into filaments, piece by piece, in clumps, always drifting, following the direction of the wind. The posture has always changed, the smile has always remained the same, settled in the unstable, free in the unfree. The starting point is a bit clear, and the end point is a bit vague. Liuyun likes to follow fate, and I also like to follow fate.

Coming and going, gathering and scattering, swimming over is the cloud, floating past or cloud. Hidden in the clouds was a milky white dream, like a silk, like smoke, floating in the sky, turning rain into mud. I looked at the clouds and thought the clouds would wait for me; I thought of the clouds, I thought the clouds would read me. I have found that clouds have countless possibilities: either to lead the sun to gilding, or to provoke the moon to incinerate silver, or to lead mountains and rivers, or to line the grass and trees to bloom.

I graze clouds high in the air, black and white, colored, stiff, and agile. Holding aloft the wind whip in one hand, he chased the cloud sheep with the other. The high place is still blue and boundless, the low place has been black clouds pressing the city, the clouds will become thicker and thicker, the rain will become more and more dense, and the clouds and rain that are missing will eventually achieve a vague love. I had no time to read the blue, but I had time to touch the black.

I like to sit in front of the window and watch the clouds, look at the posture of the clouds, and see the weather of the clouds. There are big and small, when rolling up and comfortable, suddenly far and near, want to go and stop. He once climbed to the top of the mountain, once picked white clouds, his hands were wet, and his heart was full of thoughts. The breeze accompanies the clouds, the bright moon sends me home, and the clouds can be seen for half a day. In such a long time, there is joy in the eyes, and the heart is beautiful and comfortable.

Bright, white, like flocks, like cotton wool. At dusk, the lights on the ground were brilliant, and the sky was full of wind and clouds, fluffy, scattered, and migrated in groups, and there was a little sigh. The eye can see clearly, but it can't stay, there will never be this moment again, there will never be this cloud again. Impermanent clouds, unknown clouds, maybe that's life. The clouds gather and scatter, and the clouds are on the shoulders.

Idle time to see idle clouds, idle to see idle clouds. That kind of idle, leisurely, thin, like the clouds in the sky. The clouds were white, pure white, silky, flaky, clumps. Clouds are soft, changing with the wind, piling up, scattering, stopping, cruising. That kind of soft white will make people psychedelic, will suffocate people, and will make people lose the ability to imagine.

I always feel that the cloud is the slowest to go. Those clouds were at the tip of the mountain, at the head of the stream, at the top of the pavilion, motionless. The clouds are there, the silence is there, and it is the slow clouds that bring about a deep stillness. As I listened to my own heartbeat, I watched the clouds silently pull the cotton wool, and even pulled out another white and soft new cloud. In an extremely slow rhythm, the cloud becomes more lyrical, it floats in the smoke and water, it floats on the vast time.

The cloud stops at the mountain pass, and there is a round of sunset at the mountain pass; the cloud stops the water bank, and there are a hundred flowers on the water's bank. Among the flowers under the setting sun, birds and finches flew hurriedly to catch up with the clouds that were about to depart. What a gorgeous picture, what a wonderful cycle. The clouds stop and I stop, the clouds stop quietly between the mountains and rivers, I stop bending and bending in the fantasy.

Paradoxical, to leave unintentional, scattered clouds, scattered feelings. Or erosion or condensation, or flow or stagnation, in the vast depths of space, I can not see the mysterious metaphors floating in the random. Similar time and shade, similar flowing clouds, soft and boneless beauty always bring people different imaginations. Changeable and vivid appearance, dense and vague momentum, hesitant, insisting, countless streams of clouds woven into a warm pulse of the dream --