I was walking down the street one day when I noticed a woman's brand called "Emerald Purple." It struck me as something spontaneous, almost magical. I decided to scribble a little poem about it using watercolors, describing it as a crystalline melody, cool yet vibrant. As I painted, I softly hummed to myself, not expecting anyone to overhear. But someone did, commenting that the veins of the purple lotus held a certain allure, though they wondered why only the setting sun seemed unbothered by the fading light. What a delicate touch indeed!
I mentioned how, in my mind, there stood an awkward man in lake-green robes, leaning on a single canoe leaf, accompanied by fleeting memories of his presence. When he appeared, the sunset would bloom, and he'd say he loved seeing Holland. I simply nodded, pretending to know what he meant, though all I could think about were tulips. One day, the canoe carried him past my side again, this mysterious figure clad in purple, even if it was just for a fleeting moment. He seemed so still, swaying only slightly in the breeze. He told me that if the boat could stay longer, he’d ring the wind chimes at the bow, reminding me of a sound I hadn’t heard in years—Zi Zi, at every sunset. Quietly, I whispered back, feeling tears welling up as I listened to his soft singing.
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