The Milky Way succumbs to the nightfall and became a canvas for your artistic display. Fickle winds and chorusing cicadas entered your painting; spirits in all things were fashioned by your brushes – gentle as the breeze that soothed me as I grew up. Into the room flew the moonlight, while I escaped into the wonderland under the starry night. The crescent moon hung high as it gleamed, playing hard to get by your glimpse. At that moment my mind was settled, and it felt like I could leave everything behind. “I have your back,” you said, “fly to your mountain like a bird and never look back.”