Time flies, time mottles, fingertip quicksand flies, I stand in front of the window in the vast night.
Viruses are often classified into broad categories as mosaics, yellows, mottles, and streaks.
Whether in the countryside or in the city, everything withered reveals its piety to winter, leaving only mottles that contain heavy and eternal feelings of sustenance.
In the years between fingers, the painted sculptures are rendered with flawless mottles, and the sad City pools are still drawing ink and brushes, drawing the traceless blown by the four monsoon winds.
When I look at it, besides the mottles of those years, I also feel the vicissitudes of life for thousands of years.
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