If words can lean on each other, I'll compose a piece of romantic beauty, and I know, I've already dreamt it.

Perhaps, everything doesn't need words; words are like hearts, brushstrokes are gentle and blooming, those lingering glances, searching and seeking, are quietly serene and tranquil.

I like this feeling – pouring a cup of the past, drinking with time, dreams follow your movements, letting the years blossom in a gentle smile. Perhaps, the sky is the color of misty rain, that love, that dream, always seeps with a hint of melancholy, yet, if melancholy is embraced by bright and elegant warmth, where isn't there a warm dance of colorful ribbons?

Standing on the shore of thought, abandoning time, letting vast stretches of time fall through my fingers, vividly recreating the past. Used to collect the whispers of a clear breeze and a tree's shade, transforming each quatrain of thoughts into elegant red-sealed script, waiting for your gaze to cross the water's shore of my soul.

From beginning to end, I knew you were waiting for me nearby, waiting for me to reach out and sing with you across the water, so peacefully taking three thousand gentle and serene beauties, writing love stories of the mortal realm, holding a portion of unwavering devotion and the initial encounter...