Late at night, all was silent.
Tang Song fell into a long dream steeped in the fragrance of ink.
In the dream, he found himself in an ancient study from an unknown era.
Rain battered the banana leaves outside the window, while candlelight flickered crimson indoors.
A sheet of premium Chengxin Hall Paper lay spread across a huge huanghuali desk before him.
The ink in the ancient Duan Inkstone had been ground to a glossy, pitch-black sheen.
He held a brush in his hand.
Over and over, he practiced the most basic Eight Principles of Yong.
Dot, horizontal, vertical, hook, upward stroke, left-falling stroke, right-falling stroke.
Time in the dream seemed to stretch endlessly.
Spring, summer, autumn, and winter passed in unknown succession.
The banana leaves outside the window turned green, then yellow, then green again.
He copied countless renowned steles and calligraphic works.
From the flowing grace, seductive elegance, and vigorous strength of Wang Xizhi's Orchid Pavilion Preface;
to the somber cadence and majestic grandeur of Yan Zhenqing's Memorial to My Nephew;
then to the multifaceted brushwork and wind-swept walls, charging horses of Mi Dai's Shu Su Tie.
His heart, tempered stroke by stroke, was cleansed of all restlessness and stray thoughts, becoming as still as an ancient well.
Gradually, the lines beneath his brush began to come alive.
The ink began to show shifts between rich and pale, dry and wet.
Between the characters, the emotions he wished to express began to flow.
Finally, on some unknown morning.
He lifted his brush again and, in one fluid motion, wrote the four characters: "Long Wind Breaks Waves."
Its spirit was innate, its force piercing through the paper.
Friday, December 1, 2023, 7–13°C.
Early in the morning, before dawn had broken.
The only sound in the bedroom was the steady