Clouds meet cosmic dust, rain runs through the bodies of the dead, and life is the collection of time. The unspoken words sink to the bottom of the sea, and the ebb and flow embraces the soul's demise and touches the injured body. Lying anywhere is lying in the grid. This is the door of life. When you push the door, you don't need to jump, and fate hangs gently behind the door. Living is not death, but the projection of death appears little by little. Ducks wrap their coats at the subway entrance, and workers' bodies are cut into tobacco and trimmed neatly by machines. Expectation is the predecessor of anger. Everything is one thing. When the leaves fall in front of my meditation room, there is no need to watch. We are the river and the bottom of the river, snuggling up to every moment of the universe.
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