It is 9 o'clock at night, but I don't know what day of the week tomorrow is.

I once walked through the starless nights of Beijing alone. In that moment, I skipped frames and landed on the person who pondered questions over and over again. I reminisced about his breath, walking together with him under the shadows of streetlights.

Perhaps the future me is also walking alongside, silently and wordlessly. The vast universe connects the three of us, and in the soundless space, we earnestly listen to the thunder. The younger person seems somewhat uncertain, while the older person appears somewhat unrestrained. The vastness of this world intimidates one, while its smallness seems to confine another. I know he was once frightened by a 3 million square meter office in Wudaokou, intimidated by an organization with 3,000 employees. I know the older person might be confined by the small world before his eyes, trapped by music, chess, calligraphy, and painting, by poetry and songs.

The breath of those illusory figures is a projection of the mind, a creation of the self.

Oh, augmented reality, more real and beautiful than reality itself.

I have two pairs of eyes, one pair of realist eyes that have seen all the paths, and one pair of romantic eyes that fixate on all the shimmering clouds.

When those romantic eyes gaze upon the unfamiliar yet familiar scent of perfume, a Song Dynasty poem from a thousand years ago imprints itself in my mind: 'A faint fragrance in the sparse shadow, the bamboo stirs as the door opens, as if an old friend has arrived.' Layers of warm, familiar memories unfold in an instant, only to leave me wistfully longing, as if the faint fragrance still lingers by my side.

When those realistic eyes opened, I only saw my own reflection. I could see every detail, and the influence of the Artes-Liberales Chinese training could penetrate into people's senses, memories, and expressions.<b>

I also saw the truth behind the illusion, and the illusion behind the truth.<b>

I also saw the simultaneity of expression. Am I writing about a past acquaintance? Am I writing about myself? Am I writing about the human predicament? Am I writing about my way of expression?<b>

In that moment, every breath vanished without a trace, just like that river in that year. Like the fish in the clear water, you silently waited for them for three hours. Even your breaths were long. You silently watched them elegantly swing their tails and soar in the sunlight. But in an instant, someone called you home for dinner, and you realized that your feet were numb, your sleeves were soaked, and your back was sunburned and painful. Even the birds left white droppings beside you.

Who can you share the knowledge, memories, and breaths from that dream world with? Who will understand the fish flying in the sunlight spots? Who cares that the water dripping from the eaves is more dazzling than the whole world?<b>

So, I, or rather you, used all your strength to connect these two worlds. Then you realized that exerting force is not the way. Relaxation is the entrance to the dream, making the water droplets more dazzling than diamonds. But if you exert too much force, even your expression disappears, just like how you don't know what you are writing now.

Well, you have seen many worlds, leaving behind a body in each world with its unique paradise. Well, you know that your creations may not shine as brightly as others', according to certain standards. Well, you want to uncover a corner and share it with others, but when you turn around, you find that they are always elsewhere. Well, this world has become a world of accountants, where everyone only knows how to count. The value of a diamond lies not in its transparency or its twenty faces, but in its 950,000. Well, you strive to bring the world into a waterless world, making water droplets also become 950,000, so that everyone suddenly realizes, "Ah! So that's how it is! So that's how it is!"

Excessive, too excessive. Every sentence I write is one point excessive, excessive to the point of excess.<b>

I got up to find a past acquaintance, but in fact, there is no past acquaintance. I never thought about a past acquaintance, and I can't remember which past acquaintance it is. I don't even know where there is a past acquaintance. It's just an inner projection. Those fake things make it real. Only by creating miracles can I believe in miracles. Ah, the great Quixote, the great Cervantes, you are right. Let me temporarily close another pair of eyes and experience the greatness of miracles.

Let my black eyes decide the next fall in this well.