Hearing flies over the mountain from outside the pass, over the mountain beams, into the ravines, into the mountain passes, whining and whistling, and flying sand and stones

Boom, where is the river ice cracking? With a creak, the diseased branch with a big bowl mouth was scratched. One night, the wooden shelves of the stone house where I live, Gralla and Guerra rang and shook.

Under the tactile shady rock, the snow, regardless of beginning of spring and the vernal equinox, is cold and dense, with no civilized meaning.

flapping on the face, like countless needles.

The taste is always the faint sunshine of the horn and the misty rain of the oxtail. It's like wearing a wet cloth shirt all day, moldy in the corner of the wall, long mushrooms and the smell of dead mice.