Lip Line

Black tiles are hooked around the village in all directions.

Thousands of years of smoke and fire smoked out a black mushroom, or a broken shoe dropped by the girl who went up to the fairy.

You can see the fairy girl eating mushrooms.

We happily ate mushrooms, and the more poisonous mushrooms we ate, the less toxic they were. The fairy girl flew to Hessian Ridge, the trees on the ridge were gone, and the mountain returned to its original appearance, with rocks, earth, and diffuse clouds. People back to the beginning, where to go to set fire to where the Hessian Ridge was burned a few times every year. When the fire started, we were cheering, jumping, and shouting "Hessian Ridge is on fire". The fairy nun has gone, the fairy nun also can not burn, and the fairy nun does not put out the fire. The fairy nun is just a story. After a thousand years, the story of the fairy nun is still hanging in the mouth.

Hessian Ridge is burned twice a year and ignored.

The crops are still the same, as you know, and can not be lost.

People come out from generation to generation, some out, some equal to none.

Everyone is eating mushrooms.

The mushrooms make everyone look at the fairy goddess, zingy, smiling like the full moon, not smiling like the string moon.

A burst of mushroom smell in the village.

At first also dizzy, dizzy after, and began to indulge in the smell, never again, unless knocked out.

The person who knocks himself out is, more often than not, himself.

The feeling of passing out is sometimes really nice and enjoyable.

People in the village often knock themselves out.

I go to watch and my heart is full of wonder. A person is an accident, and the word gets out that it is a story. A tile is an umbrella, a house, protecting generations of the dead and the living. A lane is a line, countless lanes, crisscrossing, are the production of stories of the Bagua array. The center of the formation was guarded by the old ancestors, and the old ancestors left an open space in front of the door. Whether he had eaten mushrooms, whether he had married a fairy, no one knows. The black of the beard, the red of the clothes, and the red of the lips are made according to our imagination after eating mushrooms. That one incense burner is true, we need a god to appease the heart. Evil can not be too evil, the positive can not be too open, conservative, and conservative, to keep keep the peace. So we prefer harmless stories, historical, legendary, magical, what we can't see, what we haven't experienced, are the flowing clouds that can illuminate the world.

The green brick wall outlines the shape of that space, like the big mouth of the village.

This place has deep meaning. The wisdom of the old ancestors, leaving only a throat eye toward the sky, but not a word.

Those lanes, one by one, swim from all around, swim to this open space, as if into the pond.

We, the people, fish like in the alley, in the open space, under the wall, in the gutter.

The glory of the past is cast down from the dripping eaves, old and desolate

Touch the alley walls of the green stone strips, like the ancestral coarse linen clothes, like a wrinkled face, like calloused palms, like blunt teeth, like wet lips. Each piece of limestone strips eats blood and sweat as a human, how your mood, you can touch the same mood as the response. It's amazing, like our skin, what kind of temperature, what kind of reaction. Touching these stones, I was so quiet inside that I couldn't feel where they came from. This is my stupidity. In our place, we don't produce green stones. Those gray-white stones, burned into ash, fed the fields and seedlings and became part of the grain. Where do the green stones come from? Where do the green slabs everywhere come from? Human labor. Wherever it comes from, it is inseparable from manpower.

Such a large village is raised little by manpower.

Stones can't be eaten.

Then eat mushrooms.

However, the constant mushroom eaters got tired of eating mushrooms and went away, like fish, some jumped on the shore and became specimens. Some went along the ditch to the river, to the lake, too many places, but did not ascend like a fairy nun, but only changed their clothes, changed a face painted with the traces of age, and offered incense in the clan shrine, without blinking, with a more pious attitude. Then turned around and bought the land to go, outside the range circled by the ancestors, planting golden needle mushrooms, one growing taller and stronger than the other, growing to be taller than the Crane Fairy Ridge.

Poor, I never touched my own shadow.

I continue to eat mushrooms and continue to speculate in this half of the alley.

Ghosts do not have shadows.

Immortals have shadows no?

I slept through when the wall finally collapsed.

People respected their ancestors more.

The fish in the heart, no trace of it. Or, the haunting, pinched off all the mushrooms, and then, also washed the claws. Everyone is a decent person, everyone is living.

Gable's tile outline of the lip is gone, the village exploded into popcorn, and no one felt the pain ever. Oh, when did they start chewing gum?

They sprayed the aroma that I was dead, emitting the smell of mushrooms.

My story is that's what I eat out.

The present world is so peaceful that people forget to eat and are too busy making up stories.