I like listening to music in the silent night. The slow notes gently traverse the soul, disappear into the boundless darkness, and settle at the bottom of the deep lake of heart.

This is the voice of the soul and the password of the soul. You shudder when it triggers some hidden, undiscovered memory. You never intend to remember anything, but in an instant, with the gentle tapping of the slow notes, everything suddenly comes to life.

I believe Zhong Ziqi had the same feeling when listening to the music of Yu Boya. The majestic mountains and the flowing water are originally just natural and random codes, with no beginning or end, no climax, and no wandering. However, Yu Boya picked out a section at his fingertips and reorganized it into a code that can make people feel like they are in a dream. In an instant, the long-standing feeling in Zhong Ziqi's heart suddenly came alive. This requires no words, let alone resorting to black writing. This is just the flight of one soul, instantly colliding with another soul. We can only call it "a close friend", but we cannot describe it in any other way.

Listening is just listening, it does not require the understanding and understanding of talking. This is the principle that can be understood but cannot be described. Nodding, smiling, frightened, crying, those indescribable reactions don’t need anyone’s understanding, just the scream. The gain from music is often the trembling of the soul, so jumping tadpoles appear on the five-dollar score. It only has a head and a tail. The head is for receiving and the tail is for dancing. And the transmission and percussion of music are nothing but vibrations of the soul. When you listen, all the dust is filtered out, and your mind becomes a castle in the air surrounded by wind. Then your head, your heart, and your whole body seem to be within a magnetic field, and you can no longer enter the mundane world.

The melancholy sound of euphemistic and moving music swirled in my heart, so I searched, searched...

Where is she? who is she? Is she a ghost of the night or an angel of the wind? The sea is quiet, and the tops of the waves are shining with unrest. There is a bottle there, carrying the most profound love, floating in the depths of the sea. Seeing the white waves on the tip of the boat, their laughter splashed with a lot of glow. The boundless sea, the blue sea, the joy of the three-leaf sail is spinning in the wind.

I will always unforgettably see the struggling sailboat condensed into an oil painting. The flowing music is full of tears. Love is just the tangle of fingers and the entanglement of lips. I caress your head with my hand and look across the sky. Going towards the past, I am sad; going towards the future, but the future is uncertain. On the beach, a lingering sunset emerged. That dusk is eternity.

You need a pair of eyes to look at each other and a heart to lean on. When it is easy, it is like the movement of the wind, requiring no rational preparation; when it is difficult, it is like the polishing of gold, which can never be polished again. It was a dream, a dream I had had for a long time, about the sea and the story of the sea. The story is as deep as the sea. It is written in blue, soaked in coldness, but wrapped in the hottest heart. Your scent is spreading. In the skin, in the blood, in every sight.

When you miss me, my tears are falling.

Floating from the sea, smiling at me on the other side of the blue trees. Flying in the air, falling because of longing, falling outside the window. The warm candlelight ignites your lips.

Still here, from the other side of the sea, deep in the blue jungle, your three-leaf sail is always very elegant.

Love is the interdependence of life and death, from the side of death to the dream of life. The handwriting is still fresh, the voice is still there, not even death can take away that eternity. Jumping over the cliff, your figure is always in front of you. The wind flutters the clothes. The rain wets the face. You are as weak as a leaf, growing cold in my arms.

The glow after the rain brings back the past face. It is not a bit of starlight, nor is it the cold waning moon, it is just a drop of tears from the past, soaked in the paper of memory. The drop of red wine was still burning in his veins. Hug me again, if you love or have loved, hug me again.

There is a kind of music that is very domineering, hitting your soul, and embeds itself into your body without explanation, blends into your blood, and never comes out.