If a wanderer on earth is drunk and decadent, he doesn't know his beginning, but his end. Cross the sea, ride the long wind, dream to stop the corridor, cross the farewell and go out of the customs. As for the human world, stop and go, and walk around, all things are one. Hasty time, combined with silence, to numerous old frost China, is my soul. Abandon the cassock and weave a thread. The flesh and bones are all fetuses. If the floating dust is often three thousand and drunk, it will be an empty forest dust. This is a collection of relics collected by the dead monk of the ancient temple when he was drunk and decadent.