There is always a kind of "like" remaining in the heart. Like the fragrance of tea lingering around the tip of the tongue and throat. Like chatting with one or two bosom friends at a small table, watching coffee boiling in the transparent pot. Like suddenly receiving a call, saying that he is sending flowers at the moment and asking to wait at a certain place...
Like - yes, even at midnight, when alone by oneself, still like to play a piece of music at the lowest volume to savor a kind of melancholy, or, clearly listening to the night rain hitting the eaves, thinking of an ordinary person when getting along, how unexpectedly there are such surging and soul-stirring emotions in your heart.
"When idly trying the seven-stringed zither, this tune has few bosom friends, all because it is plain and insipid, not as lewd as the Zheng sound". Once I watched a friend practicing calligraphy under the lamp, with distinct ink marks on the off-white rice paper. Suddenly looking at him carefully, he is really such a plain "person", but there is a genuine charm compelling, making people involuntarily feel dazed under the lamp at dusk.
Yes, yes, I like everything in front of me. Like that life is so real, the body is so warm, having the flesh and bones and the senses to walk, to see, to love, to understand and to give.
Really like, like this kind of sobriety and helplessness when finally looking into life. I think, I am. In this life and the afterlife, always like to coincidentally or not coincidentally bump into that person or that thing that comes head-on.