Listening to the wind against the south wall, a fleeting dream.

　　You are a fleeting ray of light, a shoulder I can no longer lean on, a wall I recklessly crashed into, a fleeting, futile dream. You are the irreversible passage of time, the incurable wound of memories.

　　------ Prologue

　　Year after year has passed in a daze, and I still like to wander alone, hiding by street corners and roadsides. This quiet street, bustling yet not noisy, this roadside I wander along, piled high with snow. The snow beneath my feet is slightly cold, and even the last trace of warmth under my feet is taken away by these few specks of snow. I feel as if I have lost all warmth in my body, and I can no longer move my feet. Look, even in the depths of winter, a few broken leaves have fallen. Look, on these broken leaves, there are still a few specks of snow abandoned by the sky, just a little bit, and I can't take my eyes off them. Look, this bustling street corner and roadside, empty. Look, this chaotic world and time remain so quiet and peaceful. If there's anything missing, it's the absence of warm sunshine. Look, the cold wind howls, and the gloomy sky seems even more silent.

　　How many roads must one walk to see the scenery one desires? How many rivers must one cross to reach the place one longs to go? How many years must one live to silently mature and grow up alone? In this lifetime, how many roads must one walk, how many rivers must one cross, how many years must one live to meet that one person and then quietly love them for a lifetime? You are like the wind beyond the south wall, the dream beyond the yellow millet. A wind I can't hear clearly even with my ear pressed against the wall, a dream I can't see even with my head held high. You are like an incurable disease, an illness beyond medicine. An illness that is terminal even when I'm on my deathbed, an illness I never imagined even with my chronic ailment. And how many nights must I spend beyond the south wall, how many dreams beyond the reach of reality, before I know that the south wind has not yet risen, that my longing for you has become an illness, my joy for you is an illness beyond cure.

　　Always hiding in a corner forgotten by time, I have witnessed it all, yet taken it for granted: a cold rain in the dead of winter, freezing the frigid river surface, retelling all the stories it knew. This world, so deeply etched in my memory, seems to have been concealed by this rain; even these lingering years must wave goodbye to me, only to brush past me again. All the stories in this world have come to a standstill, all the forgetting in this world has been pressed to the ground by time, tearing all your words into fragments. All the romance and beauty in this world has become a testament written in a book; the incomplete words in this book are engraved vows, lies that deceive all who witnessed this romance and beauty. I am like an elderly writer in my seventies, having read all the sorrows and vicissitudes of this world; or like a dying person in their eighties, unable to speak of the cycle of cause and effect, unable to express the love, hate, and madness of this world. I have also thought of going to very, very far places, traveling for very long times, to see the scenery I want to see, to read the stories I like, to catch a bowl of snowflakes in the dead of winter, to brew a pot of bitter tea, and to write a very, very long letter, without beginning or end, without past or future, stripped of the beauty of nature, leaving only the five flavors of daily life.

　　I like to keep things I've used before, whether it's books I've read, pens I've used, tickets from a trip, or paper with my handwriting on it. I like to go to places I've been before, again and again, without ever growing tired of them. I also like to hide under a tree stripped of all its leaves, watching the fallen, withered leaves, watching my reflection in the puddle, watching myself in the reflection, the sky in the reflection, watching the clouds drift and the disheveled face in the reflection. Even though I yearn for mountains and seas, for your so-called longing, for your so-called joy, for the scenery you loved, for the stories you loved. Later! I buried all these myriad thoughts of you, and all that I had in my heart, in the passage of time. In the end! It couldn't compare to a simple "It's cold and the dew is heavy, take care."

　　It's as if life is a play, singing out all the joys and sorrows, all the stories of this world. When all the stories have been heard, the silence is like waking from a dream, and then the music ends, the people disperse—perhaps this is what they call the end of the performance. But the stage is silent, the lingering sound fades, and everything seems too rushed. If life is truly a rare play, then I am willing to sing through the seasons of spring, autumn, winter, and summer, through all the wind, frost, rain, snow, sorrow, and heartbreak. In this world, nothing is deeper than the sea, nothing farther than a dream, and nothing more tender and beautiful than the fleeting beauty of wind, flowers, snow, and moon. In this world, nothing is sweeter than sugar, nothing is bitterer than medicine, and nothing more sorrowful than the

　　vicissitudes of life. Unable to grasp that lingering sorrow in my mind, like the wind choking on the winter solstice, she seems to be a thorn in my heart, wounding and ravaging my memories, a mirror in the frost, chilling the past, swaying with raindrops. Your heart is full of desolate graveyards, burning paper money, etched and engraved. Don't torment yourself anymore, why not tear up her name, shatter those memories? Why not open the desolate graveyard in your heart, is it her cold thoughts, or your sorrowful past? If you ask me what love is, I will surely be unable to explain; if you ask me what sorrow is, then I will definitely say you. You are a story, the desolate graveyard in my heart, the inscription on the tombstone, the raindrops of my barren youth.

　　Time always flows quietly like this, and how many past events are like the clouds and smoke in this mist? Those clear memories, on some day when I look back suddenly, become blurred! The last bit of warmth left on my fingertips can no longer feel these uneven marks. You are the cool rain in the night rain, and also like memories in the cool rain. Let your quietly arriving thoughts flood my heart. Those throbbing past events, tearing the constraints of paper, secretly linger before my eyes. The remaining ink has the smell of decay, much like the smell mixed in with rotten wood. It is the lingering affection of fireworks, the hope of bluestone. It is my silent story or the sorrow I cannot forget. If it were you, what would you do? The past is the past, with bitterness and sweetness, mixed with regret. Time is like this, making people secretly sigh and reminisce, reminiscing about the past and the people of the past. Is it your lost love, your withered hope, your lingering, inescapable scent? It is the scattered fireworks within your love, burning away the past that time itself must remember.

　　From giving everything to losing everything, there are always people to cherish and things to remember. I always thought that showing my happy side to others would create the illusion that I was truly happy, but that wasn't true. I felt lonely, sad, and heartbroken over the loss of even the smallest things or feelings. I was always self-righteous, wandering through the past with the scent of winter. Most people in this world live hurried and aimless lives; no one seriously cares whether your life is good or bad, or whether it's good or bad. No one pays much attention to the places you've been or the scenery you cherish. We will all be lonely, and we will all flee in despair. To this day, I don't know what I've gained or lost over the years. I always deliberately recount the past, but who knows that my past memories are like ashes burned by a wildfire, leaving no trace of spring's gentle breeze.

　　From now on, for those I truly love, they must reciprocate with sincerity; for those I admire, I will burn them all; for those I truly love, you will be my only life. You must bring me joy, you must share my laughter. You must be kind to me, you must grow old with me. Just seeing you is enough to make me fall deeply in love. From now on, for those I yearn for, we must treat each other with respect. We must be inseparable, we must be unwavering. We must listen to the wind against the south wall, and then the dream of wealth and glory will end. Listening to the wind against the south wall,

　　a dream of wealth and glory—this time, greedy for memories, twists and turns, only to turn back again.

　　Listening to the wind against the south wall, a dream of wealth and glory—this familiar yet strange feeling, intermittently fading yet piercingly painful.

　　Listening to the wind against the south wall, a fleeting dream of wealth and glory, this winter night, day and night, the hurried sunrise and sunset.

　　Listening to the wind against the south wall, a fleeting dream of wealth and glory, this upside-down, fallen world, one page after another, in disarray.

　　If possible, someday in the rest of my life, I could find a courtyard beneath the old city walls of Suzhou, enclose a vegetable garden surrounded by bluestone, plant a loquat tree by my own hands, raise a cat that's neither too fat nor too thin, and feed a dog that's neither too lazy nor too lazy. In the kitchen, I'd set up an old pot and cook dishes typical of the Suzhou and Zhejiang water towns. If possible, I'd spend the rest of my life rowing a small boat along the south wall of Suzhou, falling asleep facing the south wall, facing the fishing lights, facing the water town. Occasionally, at midnight, I'd hide on this south wall, listening to the sound of the breeze, looking at the dim starry sky beyond. I'd waste the rest of my life like this, no longer touching Tang and Song poetry, no longer reciting Confucius's Book of Songs, no longer reading Qu Yuan's Chu Ci. No romantic tales of love and nature, only the reclusive life of returning to the countryside. The cries of vendors in the bustling market at dawn, the silent rustling of falling leaves at night. I rise with the sun and return at sunset. Pushing open the small gate to the courtyard, the wind from beyond the south wall blows in with my footsteps, scattering loquat leaves from the stone enclosure. Look, I guard the wind beyond the south wall; look, I guard the loquat leaves. Look, I guard the grand dream on my roof beam. You are the wind beyond my south wall, the dream beyond my wildest dreams. I wonder, on the day I left in a flash, are you truly happy now?