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Black and white impermanence fifty years ago and fifty years later.

Fifty years ago, I was dust, and fifty years later, I am still dust.

Like a stranger, I watched a man named Huang Baoyu grow up, grow old and die. I took him as a work, carved it intentionally or unintentionally, and then dropped it.

One day, when I was reading, tears fell at the end. One day, when I wrote it, no one could understand it. I showed it to Depression Buffalo. I admit that he is the only one who can understand this novel.

We are alive, and everything around us has been "adapted from the script". Everyone is alive, just like a huge studio. Everyone has gradually become a full-time actor, repeating or reproducing others' or their own lives for decades, from the opening to the end of the play.

I often bend down to carefully observe ants running on a leaf and keep running. Presumably, he knows that his life will come to an end, and the only way to prolong his life is to expand the space we can go and the time we can exist. We travel, we explore, we go to outer space, we stay healthy, and we live long. All these can help us, but all these can't help us.

We rushed out of the solar system, but for the whole universe, we still haven't rushed out of that little leaf, Truman. ...