There's wind outside the window, and also tree branches.
Sunlight fell on his cheeks, and Zheng Qing watched the shadows of the branches swaying in the sunlight. It seemed as though even the sunlight was stirred into ripples by the breeze. Lying in the sunlight felt like lying in warm hot springs, with the gentle sunlight as the softly rippling spring water.
He opened his mouth and took a bite of the sunlight, soft and warm, as if it were marshmallow freshly taken from the oven, only lacking a bit of the sweet taste, and instead having a slightly bitter touch.
Zheng Qing knew that the bitterness was the residue of the magic potion remaining in his mouth.
Subconsciously, a description from Tsvetaeva's poetry floated through his mind — veins filled not with blood, but with sunlight. Alone, confronting his own soul, he sensed the oddity of life — of course, the original poem was not quite like this, but its essence was similar.
