If you want to write about washing feet, you cannot just write about washing feet; you must write: you are washing away the mud of walking in the world, and what you are kneading away are the edges worn smooth by time and misfortune. At first, I thought today was a calm night, with her standing in front of me holding a suitcase; like a flower nurtured by the clear spring in the mountains. For you, it is a foot wash, but for her, it might be a train ticket home for the New Year, a down jacket to keep warm in the severe winter, a gambling father, a sick mother, a younger brother in school, and a broken home. If I don't help him, who will? The autumn wind understands my feelings, gentle and deep, love begins and ends with the ringing of the clock. That delicate little hand brushing over my ankle takes away the fatigue of the day and leaves behind the beauty of life. In that moment, I looked into her eyes, those shy yet smiling eyes, as if they could see through my soul. I cannot resist her gaze; I can no longer distinguish whether the flutter in my heart is because of love. I feel the warmth of her palm, that warmth seems to be the most precious temperature in my life. Some say that even with three thousand ailments in the world, only longing cannot be cured; even with the intention of parting, the clock still soothes the sorrow. Whether it is vulgar or elegant, I can no longer tell; I only know that if I do not go, it is to be unromantic.