My grandmother left him. From that day on, Each day will be that day. It Is December Winter in Shanghai. The burning of books,and the wind blows blossoms from the east. There is no time.
Crippled nights follow a starless path.
A wagon is filled with fields. They have been told to kill all the robins. There is no time to eat. They must follow orders. Trees, prayers leap like dust in the seam of this day.