Olkhon Island was clouded with clouds, clinging to Lake Baikal in all directions to the end of the line of sight, the blizzard on the cliffs came from the cold depths of Siberia, and the strips of cloth wound around the torso of the oil pine rustled, and I was like a The thin point, at this moment, is in the prehistoric moment. After more than ten hours of turbulence, what I care about is the meaning of waiting, just like the shaman, like the sun they revere, like everything in nature. And in Listyanka, the sun and the autumn wind dissipated all the clouds, and the pure blue sky covered the lake, the ridges, the spires of the wooden houses. The bean-sized mountain eagle is about to fly out of gravity, the birch and sumac and the Siberian pine are competing to show their rich colors, the bulldog is asleep on the soft grass, whose wind chime occasionally rings, and the crow and the lark in the opposite mountain forest. It should be reconciled, and this unwillingly lonely swing is creaking non-stop. All this delightful, allowing tiny human beings to be around, deserves more attention, and even humility and awe can come from here. We travel, spend time with our parents, work hard, clean the house, think and walk, stare at loved ones, smile at strangers, worry about missed planes and credit card bills, or just daze. In the mysterious sea, in the vast forest, in the crowded city and the quiet country, we search for meaning, which haunts our body through the years. Time passes through the tips of the fingertips, brushes the barnyard grass and dandelions, slips through the raised corners of the mouth and the wrinkles on the forehead, as warm and charming as the sun, as breathless and poetic as the autumn wind. One second you can be eternal, the next second heaven and hell.
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