On the pale rice paper.
From nothingness to existence, towering peaks rise, emerging above the clouds, rooted at the ends of the earth, with time flowing into streams and causation forming into mist.
The vast forests of mountains seem to symbolize the endless desolate years, life and death cycling, prosperity and decay following one another, stretching endlessly into infinity.
A path extends into the distance, where there is a mountain village, with eight or nine fertile plots of land, intersecting paths, the sounds of chickens and dogs, and curling smoke from the hearths, as if transcending grand epochs to become its own rustic corner of the mortal world.
At this moment, the painting is nine-tenths complete.
Eight parts depict the colors of the mountain, one part is the small village.
These eight parts of mountain hues, though vast and mesmerizing, though their beauty is infinite, all now seem to serve as a backdrop to the small village.
