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Chen TingtingS there is a time of return; rees may have died back， but there is a time of regreening; peach blossoms may have fallen， but they he ell me， o return? If they had been stolen by someone， be? hem? If they had made the escape themselves， then hey stay at the moment? I don"t knoo spend， but I do feel my hands are getting empty。
Taking stock silently， I find that more than eight thousand days have already slid aer from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean， my days are dripping into the stream of time， soundless， traceless。 Already s is starting on my forehead， and tears hose that have gone have gone for good， those to come keep coming; yet in bet is the shift， in such a rush? up in the morning， the slanting sun marks its presence in my small room in three oblongs。
The sun has feet， look， he is treading on， lightly and furtively; and I am caught， blankly， in his revolution。 Thus--the day flohrough the sink he bo my meal， and passes a in silence。 I can feel his haste no my hands to hold him back， but he keeps flo my hholding hands。 In the evening， as I lie in bed， he strides over my body， glides past my feet， in his agile he moment I open my eyes and meet the sun again，one the neo flash past in the sigh。
can I do， in this bustling h my days flying in their escape? Nothing but to hesitate， to rush。 have I been doing in that eight-thousand-day rush， apart from hesitating? Those bygone days have been dispersed as smoke by a light ed as mist by the morning sun。
traces have I left behind me? Have I ever left behind any gossamer traces at all? I have come to the ark naked; am I to go back， in a blink， in the same stark nakedness? It is not fair though: rip for nothing.
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