Even at the climax of the plot (if there is one), there is no accompaniment to render, no foil.
If you look at the whole article, the insect master is a thick word.
The protagonist smoking the insect smoke looked at the joys and sorrows that were so thick that they couldn't be resolved with a look of onlookers.
Think of a dish.
Stew the black-bone chicken in the soup, add the seasoning, and after it is simmered, use tofu to filter out all the dregs in it with a filter cloth, and finally get a bowl of transparent soup, just like white water.
It looks light, but thick.
Reached out, but couldn't catch it, opened his mouth to say, but didn't know what to say.
So it was a sigh.
Quiet and picturesque, sad as a song.
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