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Smoky II Collection, bright bonfires under the trees, teal smoke, like fog at night. Flowing, wrapping around like a yarn. The soot wafted in the wind above the chimneys like giant feathers on a steel helmet, shining golden in the sun’s rays. There was no wind, and the smoke rose like white pillars frozen in the cold air, neither shaking nor moving. In the evening, the thin gauze mist in the mountains flutters in the gaps between the trees and grass, silently, like the curtains in front of the bed, making you want to fall asleep in its embrace. The gray-white cooking smoke and the gray twilight blended together, like a thin layer of cellophane covering the walls, roof ridges, and tree tops, making them looming and floating, with a somewhat wonderful atmosphere. The wind was blowing gently, the ashes on the ground fluttered with the breeze, and there were gradually fewer people on the street, and fewer cars. Blue smoke curled up from the chimney of the house, and the light shadow slid across the snow, as if telling something. In the fog, the past is vivid, the mind is getting more and more sober, but the heart is getting more and more lonely. I am very willing to enjoy this loneliness. Smoke lingers and burns quietly, it’s that simple, you don’t have to think. The smoke was torn into many pieces by the wind, like clumps of hemp shavings, or it ran straight forward like a gray fog.