For example, when you see a fruit falling to the ground, from the wrist of a tree, a green apple or a ripe peach suddenly jumps to the ground, burning a light mark in the dust, leaving a watermark, or even a little bit. No clues were left, but at this moment, it moved me deeply.

For example, I saw a bird, jumping on my windowsill and looking forward, its beautiful feathers fluttering and calling at me so much, even only half a sound, and then hurriedly flew away. For example, seeing a friend's long-lost eyes and gestures, seeing the last sparkle of a dewdrop rolling on a blade of grass before it was smashed by the wind, seeing a group of ants carrying a bee slowly marching on the ground. A kind of cautious and solemn?? In short, sometimes it is a voice that moves me, a complex metaphor for the illusion of life; sometimes it is a color, a heavy color that is loaded with a lot of emotional information; sometimes It is a state, an implicit state that transcends explicit discourse. Sometimes, what moved me was actually a subtle, ordinary scene that could easily be overlooked, just as a group of ants carrying the remains of a bee moved forward tragically and violently, and in the end, almost all of them moved in. My heart, silently turned into a tragic elegy and a permanent ceremony.

Sometimes, what moves me seems to be nothing but an element of things.

I don't know why I am moved.

But one thing is for sure: if it wasn't touched, I think I would have abandoned myself without pain. Because I know that even a flower, a stalk of grass, a lake of water and a fish in this world have so lastingly touching qualities. Almost all life is inseparable from moving. If you are blind to beauty and indifferent to spring, what reason is there to move your feet between beauty and spring?