In March, Jingzhe startled the insects awake, and all things revived. By July came the Summer Jingzhe: once Jingzhe began, all the ghosts emerged.
In July, a poet friend of mine who knew my paranormal serial was about to end called me specifically, asking mysteriously, "Do you want to see a ghost?"
"Bro, speak human." I replied. Being a poet was a very romantic profession, but unfortunately, sometimes he spoke like his poetry—only half of it made sense.
"Want to see a ghost?" Fang Hua asked me.
"You... you've got new material again, don't you?" Unfortunately, it was over the phone, or I would have rolled my eyes at him.
Of course, since I often traveled to various places with him, I knew what he was getting at.
Poetry was the profession that most required gathering inspiration from life. As a singer had once said, "Life isn't just the drudgery before your eyes. There are also poetry and distant horizons."
So he loved distant horizons too. We could at least say we shared that common ground.
It was just that he was a strange poet. He disliked the places other people liked and instead often went to inexplicable places to gather inspiration, finding topics that even I found fascinating. That earlier exchange, for example, most likely meant he already had a destination in mind and was inviting me along.
"Yes. It's where a friend lived as a child. He said the scenery was beautiful, but the mountain roads are isolated, and the place is a little uncanny. I want to go there for inspiration. You should like it too, right?" Fang Hua said.
"Sure. Same rules as always—you drive, your friend serves as our guide, and I'll watch the road." I happily finalized the arrangement. Paranormal writers took unusual paths