Ask for an article about the appreciation of photographic works. About 300 words.

The space between/between/between/rooms.

-Han Shaogong

After a short rest in the wind and rain, the dripping slate gleamed faintly.

The branches and leaves on the tree are languid and exhausted. Petals are scattered on the ground. Glittering water drops are hung on the grass leaves, and even three or two spots are hung on the cobwebs in the grass.

There was silence between heaven and earth, only light rain falling in all directions, hidden in the depths of the years, endless. The scarecrow stood alone, feeling quiet and thoughtful. It seems that he is listening to all the movements in the world with open ears, including the sudden loud ticking around him-a drop of water crashing down from a melon leaf.

The melon shed is panting and about to fall down. There are black dead leaves and yellow buds on the vine. Old black and light yellow saw at both ends of time, pulling the whole autumn convulsively and sadly. More catalpa bungeana trees have withered and fallen, leaving them on the road at will, such as stacking some deep and shallow footprints. Perhaps it was the time when the big beast fled in late autumn, but it was the day when the big beast fled in the middle of the night, leaving footprints on the scene.

Nothing happened.

When nothing happens, it seems that there is a transparent time passing. Time is our life, but it is just some invisible life and death, invisible opening and closing, invisible passing by and suddenly looking back, leaving no trace except some dark dead leaves on the scene.

Is my time dripping in the falling rain? I can be an iron horse for a hundred years, I can move mountains and rivers, and I can cruise the Tianhe for a thousand years. Did they all sink? Did they fall into cold water drops? Will it be preserved forever and irretrievable?

I've been drilling in the drizzling Woods for a long time, and when I come back, I'm all wet, and I still have nothing.