Life is delicious, what a good thing to say. This taste, sweet and sour. It's sweet, light, and not warm at all. It's a lingering fragrance. Only when you sit still, be alone, and your heart sinks, you can smell the incense, floating in the air, for a while, for a while...

​​ Life is tasteful. This taste, tender. It must be a tender willow in early spring, yellow-green with worm-like buds. Just tender. When the wind blew, Liu Qingwu swayed on the shore. It is a magnolia with a white tip, no more or less, showing a small head, looking ashamed to cover it. It is also the Spring Festival on the street. Star-like embellishment of pink tender branches. Only a few flowers have seen the whole spring. The taste of life is green and tender. ​​ Life is tasteful. It must be an ancient temple in the deep mountains, mountain streams and clear springs, and egrets flying. It is a stone, and there is a large blank outside the mountain. This taste. is a tree and you see a forest. A drop of water, you dream of the vast sea. A blank, you see a mirage. This taste, mood, far away.

​​ Life is tasteful. It must be bluish, faint, and quiet. Yes, it is the color of lavender. Quiet, with a little melancholy. That sadness is the fragrance of the dead of night. That flower is a flash in the pan. A moment, aftertaste, endless. It is also the whiteness of the begonia, and it opens up quietly, and silence is worth a thousand words. ​​ Life is interesting, it must be Liu Zongyuan's lone boat, the liu, who fished for snow in the cold river alone. It is Tao Yuanming's picking chrysanthemums under the east fence, leisurely seeing Nanshan. It is a monk of Hanshan who travels to Qingshan during the day and sleeps under the rock at night. It was Du Mu's white cloud in the mirror, before the bright moon fell. It was Wang Wei who went to a place where the water was poor and sat and watched the clouds and water. ​​ Life is interesting, it must be pottery, simple, plump, and quiet. It has been hidden for thousands of years, and the ancient meaning that cannot be contained will be rewarded to those who understand it. It must be Song Porcelain. Light, thin, elegant, graceful. Like a woman in a cheongsam, stepping on a lotus step, she came slowly, and suddenly she passed by, pursing her lips, the laughter rippling in the watery sky.

​​ Life is tasteful. This taste. It is colorless water, clear. It is the line of the ridge, soft. It is a vine on a tree, cherishing each other. It is not the love of Concubine Yang Guifei and Emperor Xuanzong of Tang. A piece of white silk was stabbed to death on Maweipo. It's not the love between Li Yu and Emperor E. After the love, the new face changed to the old one. It's not that Liu Yong and the woman in Fengyue Field fell in love and waved goodbye to the cloud of love. Nor is it Van Gogh's sunflowers, burning fervently. One piece, one piece. Not even the starry sky, rolling and roaring, full of emotions. It is the love between Lu You and Tang Wan, deep and shallow, lingering for a lifetime. It is the thoughts of Bai Juyi and Xiang Ling, their hearts mirror each other, and the earth will last forever. It is the graceful grace of Song Ci, and the small bridge and flowing water in the south of the Yangtze River. ​​ Life is delicious, yes, Qinghuan. ​​ This Qinghuan is a little bit of red on the steamed bun. A hint of green in early spring. A touch of white in winter. It was a subtle joy, a small smile in my heart. Quietly. Only the heart knows. It is light footsteps. It's fluttering catkins. It's a nianhua smile. It's not the time when the title of the Golden List is not the bridal chamber's candle night, and it's not. This Qinghuan, thin cool, long-term, beautiful. ​​ This Qinghuan is written by Dai Wangshu, the woman in a cheongsam holding an oil-paper umbrella, walking in the misty and misty alley, alone, disappearing into the depths of the alley... It is the flowering tree written by Xi Murong, Waiting for the person she loves to pass by the tree, looking back inadvertently, smiling... It was written by Haizi, facing the sea, spring flowers blooming, waiting for the clear shadow of the future... ​​ This clear joy is the crispness of the water flowing in the mountains and streams in the heart of Yunshui Zen. It is the quiet beauty of the water lily dancing into the heart. It is the slow quietness of Guangling San. It is the lotus leaf He Tian Tanaka, the woman who plays the flute and sails the boat. It was an old man who lay in a lonely boat and fell asleep peacefully under the moonlight. It is a hut in the forest, a weak scholar who drinks with the moon and sings alone. ​​ This is pure joy. Away from the bustling city, walk into the quiet countryside, walk alone on the hills, admire the flowers and watch the moon, and return to the poetic countryside. Away from the neon flashes, look up at the stars, look for a group of fireflies, and dance in groups around you. Cook a plate of wild vegetables, drink a cup of home-brewed wine, sit alone in the courtyard, and invite the moon to drink together. Play a flute, whisper with insects, and listen to the joy of the birds in the forest. This pastoral, that is, Qinghuan. very alone. Very quiet. Very poetic. very pure. ​​ Lin Hejing is Qinghuan, living alone in the deep forest, with plum as his wife and crane as his son. Tao Yuanming was Qinghuan, resigned from office and returned to seclusion, and devoted himself to farming the countryside. Yu Hu is very happy, and is dependent on Baiyun every day. Lin Qingxuan is Qinghuan. Sit alone in the mountains, make a cup of good tea, enjoy the quietness of the mountains and the clear water. ​​ Life is delicious, yes, Qinghuan. ​​ This kind of life is lonely and indifferent to the world. Even in the mortal world, keep the truth, the purity, and the beauty alone. Born from nature, go back to nature. With flowers as companions, with trees as friends, with mountains and rivers as neighbors. Enjoy the sunshine of the four seasons, love the blue sky and white clouds, the mountains and flowing water.

​​She is not like everyone else. love her love. Lonely, not lonely. Deep love, shallow joy. Be happy with your own happiness. You love me or you don't love me, I'm all there. This is pure joy. This joy is clear, and this life has a taste. A touch of happiness, quiet sweetness, far and long.

Life is delicious, what a good thing to say. This taste, sweet and sour. It's sweet, light, and not warm at all. It's a lingering fragrance. Only when you sit still, be alone, and your heart sinks, you can smell the incense, floating in the air, for a while, for a while...

​​ Life is tasteful. This taste, tender. It must be a tender willow in early spring, yellow-green with worm-like buds. Just tender. When the wind blew, Liu Qingwu swayed on the shore. It is a magnolia with a white tip, no more or less, showing a small head, looking ashamed to cover it. It is also the Spring Festival on the street. Star-like embellishment of pink tender branches. Only a few flowers have seen the whole spring. The taste of life is green and tender. ​​ Life is tasteful. It must be an ancient temple in the deep mountains, mountain streams and clear springs, and egrets flying. It is a stone, and there is a large blank outside the mountain. This taste. is a tree and you see a forest. A drop of water, you dream of the vast sea. A blank, you see a mirage. This taste, mood, far away.

​​ Life is tasteful. It must be bluish, faint, and quiet. Yes, it is the color of lavender. Quiet, with a little melancholy. That sadness is the fragrance of the dead of night. That flower is a flash in the pan. A moment, aftertaste, endless. It is also the whiteness of the begonia, and it opens up quietly, and silence is worth a thousand words. ​​ Life is interesting, it must be Liu Zongyuan's lone boat, the liu, who fished for snow in the cold river alone. It is Tao Yuanming's picking chrysanthemums under the east fence, leisurely seeing Nanshan. It is a monk of Hanshan who travels to Qingshan during the day and sleeps under the rock at night. It was Du Mu's white cloud in the mirror, before the bright moon fell. It was Wang Wei who went to a place where the water was poor and sat and watched the clouds and water. ​​ Life is interesting, it must be pottery, simple, plump, and quiet. It has been hidden for thousands of years, and the ancient meaning that cannot be contained will be rewarded to those who understand it. It must be Song Porcelain. Light, thin, elegant, graceful. Like a woman in a cheongsam, stepping on a lotus step, she came slowly, and suddenly she passed by, pursing her lips, the laughter rippling in the watery sky.

​​ Life is tasteful. This taste. It is colorless water, clear. It is the line of the ridge, soft. It is a vine on a tree, cherishing each other. It is not the love of Concubine Yang Guifei and Emperor Xuanzong of Tang. A piece of white silk was stabbed to death on Maweipo. It's not the love between Li Yu and Emperor E. After the love, the new face changed to the old one. It's not that Liu Yong and the woman in Fengyue Field fell in love and waved goodbye to the cloud of love. Nor is it Van Gogh's sunflowers, burning fervently. One piece, one piece. Not even the starry sky, rolling and roaring, full of emotions. It is the love between Lu You and Tang Wan, deep and shallow, lingering for a lifetime. It is the thoughts of Bai Juyi and Xiang Ling, their hearts mirror each other, and the earth will last forever. It is the graceful grace of Song Ci, and the small bridge and flowing water in the south of the Yangtze River. ​​ Life is delicious, yes, Qinghuan. ​​ This Qinghuan is a little bit of red on the steamed bun. A hint of green in early spring. A touch of white in winter. It was a subtle joy, a small smile in my heart. Quietly. Only the heart knows. It is light footsteps. It's fluttering catkins. It's a nianhua smile. It's not the time when the title of the Golden List is not the bridal chamber's candle night, and it's not. This Qinghuan, thin cool, long-term, beautiful. ​​ This Qinghuan is written by Dai Wangshu, the woman in a cheongsam holding an oil-paper umbrella, walking in the misty and misty alley, alone, disappearing into the depths of the alley... It is the flowering tree written by Xi Murong, Waiting for the person she loves to pass by the tree, looking back inadvertently, smiling... It was written by Haizi, facing the sea, spring flowers blooming, waiting for the clear shadow of the future... ​​ This clear joy is the crispness of the water flowing in the mountains and streams in the heart of Yunshui Zen. It is the quiet beauty of the water lily dancing into the heart. It is the slow quietness of Guangling San. It is the lotus leaf He Tian Tanaka, the woman who plays the flute and sails the boat. It was an old man who lay in a lonely boat and fell asleep peacefully under the moonlight. It is a hut in the forest, a weak scholar who drinks with the moon and sings alone. ​​ This is pure joy. Away from the bustling city, walk into the quiet countryside, walk alone on the hills, admire the flowers and watch the moon, and return to the poetic countryside. Away from the neon flashes, look up at the stars, look for a group of fireflies, and dance in groups around you. Cook a plate of wild vegetables, drink a cup of home-brewed wine, sit alone in the courtyard, and invite the moon to drink together. Play a flute, whisper with insects, and listen to the joy of the birds in the forest. This pastoral, that is, Qinghuan. very alone. Very quiet. Very poetic. very pure. ​​ Lin Hejing is Qinghuan, living alone in the deep forest, with plum as his wife and crane as his son. Tao Yuanming was Qinghuan, resigned from office and returned to seclusion, and devoted himself to farming the countryside. Yu Hu is very happy, and is dependent on Baiyun every day. Lin Qingxuan is Qinghuan. Sit alone in the mountains, make a cup of good tea, enjoy the quietness of the mountains and the clear water. ​​ Life is delicious, yes, Qinghuan. ​​ This kind of life is lonely and indifferent to the world. Even in the mortal world, keep the truth, the purity, and the beauty alone. Born from nature, go back to nature. With flowers as companions, with trees as friends, with mountains and rivers as neighbors. Enjoy the sunshine of the four seasons, love the blue sky and white clouds, the mountains and flowing water.

​​She is not like everyone else. love her love. Lonely, not lonely. Deep love, shallow joy. Be happy with your own happiness. You love me or you don't love me, I'm all there. This is pure joy. This joy is clear, and this life has a taste. A touch of happiness, quiet sweetness, far and long.