I remembered a long time ago.
In an age of peace and prosperity, merely watching farmers transplant rice seedlings in their paddies could bring enlightenment. But now...
Looking at the refugees with barely any clothes to cover themselves and not enough food to fill their bellies, the monkey considered whether he should return to the mountains to eat peaches for a few years before coming back down. Bamboo Spring Temple could not do without its half-baked carpenter, and he could even spare time to dig up graves and rob ancient tombs. As the monkey pondered, he muddleheadedly dug up the wrong grass root and stuffed it into his mouth.
"Ptoo, ptoo, squeak~ Bitter. Doesn't taste good."
He shook his head, spat, and wiped his mouth carelessly. He found it utterly dull. How boring.
Thinking the stone beside a certain skinny old man looked rather nice, he walked over and squatted on it.
The frail old man shuddered.
He closed his eyes rather than look, muttering "monster" under his breath. Clearly, he intended to smash the cracked jar and be done with it. Evil demons occasionally appeared in life—some ate people, some did not. It no longer mattered. Even if he died of illness or starvation, he would not leave behind a whole corpse. There was no need to be afraid.
"Squeak, what should I do..."
He scratched his head. The fine garment on him had long since become wrinkled and crumpled.
At three feet tall, any human robe he wore always dragged along the ground, picking up dust, mud, and grass blades. It felt comfortable when clean, but once dirty, it was worse than a coarse cloth jacket—like a donkey dung pellet, glossy on the outside.
Suddenly, his gaze sharpened.
He spotted a dry tobacco pipe tucked into the dying