It's a shabby campsite yet filled with the aroma of malt. It's like a warm campfire, or steam that scatters in all directions.

All things will end up being forgotten eventually, so will the concept "being forgotten" itself.

The orange color rises to the sky along with the warm air. It goes higher and higher, and eventually becomes the beacon for the voyagers.

They are not supposed to be buried here, but it's still a perfect ending.

The glimmer of the fireflies or the warm sunshine? It has both.

The green tractor has witnessed too many stories, and now it is always talking about them again and again.

Careful, don't bump into these fresh, juicy moons.

The bell tolled the hour; fifteen minutes have been taken away from the people, but another fifteen minutes have been granted to them for their loss. Time is fair to all.

The sweet Thames, at her gentle pace, flows into the night—the night where passers-by walk past the Gateway of London, the night where singers sing their last note before the dawn breaks.

The ferries wheel, the wheel of sweet hopes. Keen faces and noses pressing against the pod glass, the visitors are eager to reach the highest point of the city and be among the stars.

Leaving the laughing wind and the hesitating figures in the dust, books in their hands, the voluble bus riders set out on their journey. As the wheels spin, they head for the neighboring blocks.

The scarlet booths, and some words from afar. This is the lean source of comfort people had during the Great Depression.

You can breathe, warm up, and escape... for now.

Climbing to the top, the fugitive looked out over the mist. Below the earth, creeping, crawling things came following the light...

Twisting scratches, dark red bloodstains... "This is a lame joke," said every trespasser.

They took off their coats and rolled up their pants, laughing as they made for the island. It was a race into its bottomless appetite.

Soup, light, and a speaker echoing through the forest. Fear creeps in, and they seem to have... expected it?

A full tank, fresh tires, and headlights that could light up the whole forest... They whooped excitedly as they rolled over the darkness, bursting it like a bubble!

My friend, a lamp glowing in the darkness isn't always a symbol of hope... Imagine the sound moths make as they throw themselves into the pyre.

A storied ancient observatory. The stars do not lie, for their every move is a reflection of Mankind's development.

A lone stone pavilion suspended over the center of the river, from which the sunset over the river banks and flocks of birds taking to the sky can be seen.

The solid ground is as strong and pure as ivory tusks. When it finally shines for all to see, justice shall endure.

They are unobtrusive yet commonplace. Like nirvana and goblins, like Garuda, they cause an uproar wherever they go, yet few can give them pause.

From the beginning of time, the wise have always been enlightened, and devotees have offered their prayers. The traveler's questioning was soon answered by no thoughts of destruction, no presumption of eternal life, no difference between day and night.

As they course through the water that reflects the candlelight, shattered light dots flicker like stars, so close they are almost within reach.

Cony's gorgeous palace appears within reach. The ripples follow one after another, shattering to form a pool of lamentation.

The light of the candles falls upon the drapery. Only the majesty of the striped horse of legends that gallops against the wind, flying over mountain rivers in the distance can equal this.

It just wants to take a good nap among the snowdrifts and the gifts, and send you greetings for the snowy season.

It suddenly appears on a day as the year draws to a close, preserving the memories of days gone by.

Offer it questions and sincerity, and it will hand you the key.

A bonfire rises, a stone pillar is erected. Hearing the sound, the crowd descends in droves.

Colliding and intertwining, the footsteps of wisdom echo in this place, across the ages.

Every life comes to an end, and every building returns to rubble. Only wisdom lives on, forever seeking its next form.

Every life comes to an end, and every building returns to rubble. Towering above, atop the Eternal Heights, form is no longer a necessity.

Like a galloping foal, it has broken free from the shackles of the desert.

As the heat subsides, they sit in a circle, awakening the silent voices of their hearts.

Look here, look here... the eternal history seared with flames!

A grand return, a rekindled blaze of passionate hearts.

The serene days of yore are reborn here.

On a summer day without a trace of dark clouds, it too was never absent.

A painting needs its frame, and here you can have countless landscapes.

A dependable friend who silently and steadfastly carries our burdens, time and time again.

Let us sing the spirited song that can make delicate flowers bloom in the midst of heavy snow.