Prose time flies, looking back, it is the end of Qian Fan.

The night of Pinellia is rippling in a cup of green tea, when the thoughts in my heart have flooded. Maybe meeting you is destined to be a worship practice. It's just that all stories have unpredictable endings.

I still like to look at the moon and the distance between your world and mine. Have a soft spot for the moon. When it looked at me, my heart lost all tenderness. Fly in the moonlight. I know, this tenderness, just want to find an exit to find your whereabouts.

I don't know how to compete with time. At every intersection, I can meet a story. Look at everyone with compassion. Love is a kind of pious support. The boundless wilderness of time, who knows who will meet who, who will pay deep affection to whom.

Time flies, and it gradually slides in the wider and wider fingers. Turning around and looking back is the death of Qian Fan, a faint smile, and earth-shaking changes. Time is just a long river, and all life is just a tiny meson, carried by another ship called past lives. At that moment, where will it fall, who knows?

The moon is dancing in the breeze and the stars are smiling. Look, it's like water has been flowing for years; Listen, time is running out. In my limited life, I have what I have. Cherish everything that can be cherished with a compassionate heart and grateful eyes. Hold the warmth in your hand and treat everyone with a smile, even if you pass by next second, don't live up to it.

Time flies without trace, autumn water is silent, but the days that can slip away are on the floor. Every day's journey, every story that happened, who can be sure that it has turned into a cloud. One day, when I think back in dark brown, I will eventually become a dust. When I fell, I only hurt my eyes for a moment.

So, silently, just be a leaf fluttering in the wind, savor your vicissitudes, read your own happy-go-lucky, quietly, and support yourself with honor and disgrace in the world of mortals.

The moon is like a violet, the night is light, and the stars are always with me. Maybe this is warmth, maybe this is eternity. I don't ask if you will accompany me tomorrow. I only remember this moment and set it as a lifelong memory.

Shallow time, flowing quietly. The film of time, rolled up and unfolded; The seasonal wind dispersed Yunfu. A harvested cloud, gently sliding its rhyme, seems to be covered by the mist gauze left by the lotus.

Sipping tea gently, let the autumn wind carry the moon and lay a lotus story in the riverbed of the years. In the old days before the window, make a cup of the warmth of the floating world and watch the prosperity fall.

—— Author, pen name Zhen, a member of China Western Prose Society, a native of Xinjiang, now lives in Shenzhen.