The Scent of Decay and the Millstone of Time
The countryside is no pastoral poem, but a slow, rhythmic decay. Here, time stagnates, and life is a bean ground into dust by the millstone of mundane trifles. Rather than being "possessed" by ancestral mindsets in the suffocation of an acquaintance society, I choose to flee toward the "hotspots" of desire and intellect to find a truer, albeit chaotic, existence.