DZzzz

These little daisies I never used to pay any attention to are quite a sight when they bloom in great swathes.
At first, I thought they were buckwheat flowers. They don’t have much of a fragrance, either.
Like a blanket of snow spread beneath the twilight. Oh, it’s Frost’s Descent.
Beijing really has turned chilly. At this time of year, I’d usually be down south and come back when the heat came on. This year, all my card-playing friends are here, so I can’t really leave.
My card-playing friends are, of course, all very important people.

An old man lives in a country cottage, his white hair beneath a humble gate.
When farm work is slack, he calls the neighbors over for a jug of wine.
They chatter beneath the thatched eaves, sitting awhile, then rising again.
His coarse short robe is not shabby; garden greens are surely delicious.
He is always among his children and grandchildren, never once going to the city.
The Five Emperors and Three Kings have, since ancient times, been called Sons of Heaven.
Between taking up arms and yielding with a bow, which, in the end, is right?
If contentment brings joy, how can the fields be scorne

The girls who’ve been dominating at the card table these past few days brought me a cake.
Knowing that most of us have basically given up sugar, they even got a lightly sweet Japanese cake. I still had to look it up on Xiaohongshu to figure out what it was.
For me, their ability to understand this kind of stuff is completely wasted—like a cow chewing on peonies. I tried a little, but it was still too sweet for me. I couldn’t taste any of the craftsmanship or anything; I could taste the flavor of old-fashioned sponge cake, though.
Of course, their thoughtfulness was sweet.

Dancing Gesang flowers. This is also a type of chrysanthemum, called cosmos.
The vast wildflowers of autumn look more abundant than those of spring.
With rosy hues and graceful forms around the wild pond, their fine stems and slender leaves brave the scorching sun.
They dance leisurely with the wind beneath the clear sunlight, sending a path of pure fragrance into the evening cool.
It has been raining these past few days; this magnificent floral display should be the last of the year.
Even plum blossoms will have to wait until next year.

It was supposed to be posted last night—but I went to play mahjong and didn’t get around to it, hahahaha.
We played all night, and I neither won nor lost. I treated everyone to a late-night meal to celebrate—it was that pork-killing dish I can’t eat even one bite of, because they like it—and in the latter half of the night, a sister I’ve known for over 20 years also came over—we’re all family. She really came all this way especially for my birthday, and she won everything. So wonderful.
It was such a lively, fulfilling, warm, and joyful birthday🎂.

Shāzhūcài is just so quintessentially northeastern. I can’t even take one bite. Luckily, there are green peppers.
But that doesn’t stop my card-playing friends from eating it with great relish. They think it’s very authentic.
It feels like the only thing that can bring the diets of these card-playing friends together is Shandong green onions—including seafood, and one thing they can’t eat—the lamb stir-fried with scallions is just incredible. It feels like Shandong green onions and those from other places aren’t even the same species.
I can’t handle anything sour at all, so I have to admire th

Today, my longtime buddy was rendered speechless by a poster, with a thousand words left unspoken.
He sent it to me to look at, and I actually didn’t know what to say either.
But I do understand him. And he understands that I understand him.
No choking back tears—just grinning, facing each other in silence.
Lying drunk on the battlefield—don’t laugh at me; I’ve gone from having no gray hair to becoming a gray-haired beauty.
Twenty-five years have passed.
Twenty-five years of our generation.
All conditioned phenomena are like dreams, illusions, bubbles, and shadows; like dew, or l

This black jujube tree at the Peking University Red Building absolutely stunned me. First of all, this was the first time I had ever seen a black jujube tree. At the same time, it was also the first time I had ever seen one so laden with fruit.
I’ve seen red dates hanging sparsely on trees, and I’ve also seen begonia trees packed densely with fruit, but fruit hanging so densely, spreading everywhere, golden and plump, almost enough to make one mistake it for persimmons—that was truly extraordinary. What a shame that not even a few fell down and hit me!
This is also a century-old tree.

The old grain is nearly gone, and the good seedlings have yet to promise a harvest. In my old age I have come to love gruel, yet by year’s end I still lack clothes. Sparrows feed their young beside the mossy well, and roosters crow at the white-plank door. A firewood cart is drawn by a weak horse; in straw sandals I herd great boars. Evening rain splits the red pomegranates, and in early autumn the green taro grows plump. After bringing food to the fields, I rest beneath the mulberry trees, then return through the grass beside the neighboring house. My dwelling is called Fool’s Valley—why both

The colors in the sunlight are beginning to grow rich and vivid.
The blue waves stretch into the distance, meeting the nearby Milky Way; the slanting galaxy hangs low, connecting with the long wild trees.
There seems to be another world of colors beneath the water.
Feeling sad over autumn has never been beneficial to one’s physical or mental health, but admiring autumn in Beijing really does make people feel delighted and greatly benefits their health—apparently, every cell in the human body cheers when basking in the sun.
There were actually hardly any people in Beijing during this year’s Nat

The beauty of early autumn in western Beijing lies in its high skies, broad clouds, tranquil waters, and balmy breezes.
To seek early autumn, one must venture beyond the Fifth Ring Road, where wild grasses and humble flowers bloom freely across the open fields; only when heating begins in late autumn does the city become radiant—for the great tree warmed by the fireworks of human life is reluctant to take its final bow, lingering slowly, note after note.

Green, round, and self-pure, it rises by shallow sands and distant islets, tall and immaculate.
Still bearing a faded hairpin, it does not unfold its autumn heart—how much of the summer heat can it curl away?
Mandarin ducks whisper beneath the same canopy; say nothing of it to the silk-washing women.
Lest a plaintive song be suddenly severed by the flower-scented breeze, shattering a thousand folds of emerald cloud.
Looking back on the dances of the Han court, I fear it may fly away, leaving only the wrinkled folds of the fairy-retaining skirt.
My green robe lingers, still stained with the dry

Gesang flowers beneath the setting sun—a very old-school literary aesthetic.
Catching the moon in the water, seeking the head in the mirror.
Marking the boat to seek the sword, riding an ox to look for the ox.
Illusory flowers and sunlit mirages, dreamlike floating bubbles.
With one stroke, draw a line under it; if you want to stop, then stop.
Ba songs, Du wine, and rustic village joys—where there is no romance, there is romance too.

Half the river ripples green, half the river glows red
—This is Ye Shengtao’s “Sunset Glow.”
Like most people, my highest achievement in Chinese was the primary and secondary school textbooks.
Actually, the line I relate to most is—my level isn’t high; all I can say is “holy shit, holy shit.”
I had originally planned to go to Jingshan today, but I left the Peking University Red Building too late and the sunset glow had already appeared—I hadn’t expected the Red Building to have only three floors open, but the exhibits were so well done that I couldn’t help looking through every one of them c

Seeking autumn, it is hard not to startle the magpies; to drink tea, one must climb the mountain. One step treads the branches in the slanting sun, the sound of ten thousand leaves makes even flying birds lose their way. In an instant, metal and stone fall silent.
The blue sky is casually left behind, while yellow flowers remain before my eyes. Old affairs, White Gate, and aging years; at the New Pavilion, red beans hold a little lingering tenderness. Returning, I slowly climb the steps.

Viewing beauties under the lanterns and moon is ten times better than in daylight.
Let me show off our family-inherited skill of admiring flowers under the moon. Getting rained on a little is worth it.
There just aren't any black dahlias.
My family grew these flowers when I was little—so dark red they were almost black, and as big as a bushel basket. On the balcony, they were mixed with a few stalks of wheat that had spilled when my dad was raising pigeons.
My dad was a top-notch gardener. We had several plants that were decades old. There’s an unused house, and it still has a garden now.

At Ritan, rain was drifting sparsely, but when I looked up, I saw the moon.
How lovely the day's scenery is; I lean against all twelve railings, while the universe floats like duckweed.
Another day, I'll go to Yuetan to bask in the sun.

Beijing’s hawthorns and persimmons are like mangoes and jackfruit in the south, falling all over the ground with no one to pick them up.
The north and south each have their own things turning to dust and being ground into earth.
The fruit at the Agricultural Exhibition Center grows especially thickly. It’s just too high up, and I’m too lazy to ask someone to climb the trees.
As it happens, hawthorns and persimmons are both things I can’t eat. One gives me a stomachache, and the other is hard to digest.
There are only a few days left before the ginkgoes turn yellow. Ginkgo fruit actually smells